Stargate Ragnarok: Baptism of Fire, Part 3
by Sealurk
Summary: Ep 5: The Garrison is engulfed by a deadly crisis it may not be able to recover from while Halverson and Llewellyn make some startling discoveries about their new allies. Follows on immediately from Baptism of Fire Part 2
1. Chapter 1

**Stargate: Ragnarok**

**Baptism of Fire, Part 3 **

**Chapter 1**

Even before the urgent warbling of the base-wide alarm began sounding Taylor had shunted his chair back and begun sprinting through the darkness for the briefing room door. The explosion and the gunfire that immediately followed it had been audible even over the din of the bickering dignitaries, and the raised, borderline frantic voices in the corridor outside and sudden loss of lighting everywhere made it clear something was very wrong. As Taylor hit the briefing room door and yanked it open, he found that Webber wasn't far behind.

"What happened?" Taylor barked, reaching out and stopping a marine as he ran past, the emergency lighting beginning to come on in the few locations where it had been installed.

"Don't know, sir! We heard a loud bang and then all the lights went out. Thought it might be something up with the reactor, but then we heard screaming and shots and the backup generators didn't kick in. Pratley said it might have escaped, sir. The noise was coming from near Section J, and nobody in there's answering their radios!"

"Brigadier, what did that man mean 'it might have escaped'?"

"Get two armed guards outside this briefing room," Webber growled at the marine, pointedly ignoring Melford, "and seal this section off until further notice."

As the marine nodded and ran off, Taylor sprinted for the nearest intercom, yanking the telephone handset off the wall mounted receiver. "Control room, this is Major Taylor - we need full base lockdown right now. The prisoner may be loose."

There was no response.

"Sergeant Gibson, come in, this is Major—" He stopped. There was nothing. No sound, no crackle, no click, not even a light on the intercom unit to show it was open or active. He turned to Webber. "Intercom's down, sir."

"I thought internal communications were supposed to be a hardened, independent system," Webber said, his tone clipped.

"It is. Maybe something's taken out the base power plant," Taylor replied.

"Brigadier! I demand you tell me what the hell is going on!" Melford said loudly. Webber bristled, but continued to ignore him.

"You!" he said, pointing to a swiftly passing soldier. "Get to the control room quickly, get Sergeant Gibson to put the base in lockdown and full alert ASAP on my order. Do it manually, section by section, if you have to. Nobody goes anywhere alone or unarmed. We may have a very pissed off Fenrir roaming the base."

The soldier briefly went white as a sheet before he nodded, turned and sprinted for the nerve centre of the Garrison.

"_Brigadier__ answer__ me!_"

Webber snapped, spinning on his heel and striding swiftly and forcefully towards the figure of Melford, only barely visible in the current feeble lighting.

"I will answer you when I have finished dealing with the current situation and not before!" Webber barked angrily and loudly, his face mere inches from Melford's. "We have a crisis on base that needs my immediate and full attention, and it will get it."

"I demand—"

"You can demand until you pass out, for all I care. Good men may be in danger, if not already injured or killed, and there is the distinct possibility that something is prowling this facility with the intention of killing every living thing it can find. Sir Dennis, remarkable as it may seem, there are actually some things more important than answering to a civil bloody servant! And if you want my job for daring to put anybody and everybody ahead of your petty, self-interested needs, you can damn well have it – but not until I have made absolutely certain that the men and women under my command are out of harm's way and whatever threat is out there is contained! Have I made myself perfectly clear? Have I?"

Melford was glaring furiously at Webber, his face a mask of barely repressed rage. Without answering he spun and stalked angrily away.

"This is your mess, Major, you brought that damned thing here. What do you propose we do about it?" Webber said, fuming as he turned to Taylor.

"We need to restore power urgently, get the lights back on before anything else – as long as we're fumbling in the dark, we're in his element and he has one hell of an advantage. With your permission I want to check on Section J as soon as possible. If we're right about what's happened, we need armed guards stationed at critical areas, and then we need to organise search parties to track, neutralise and if necessary destroy the hostile."

"Fine. Go to it."

* * *

><p>The trail was faint, masked by the pungent tapestry of the human base – there were paths hovering in the air, each distinct in its intensity, its dispersion and its origin. Here, the thick, cloying odour of sweat and there, the faint ammonia scent of urine. There were others too, all mingling with the delicious and all too faint metallic tang of the blood and the sweet aroma of the succulent flesh of dozens of unique apes. Disguising most of these was the bitter, chemical reek of the supposedly fragrant compounds these apes used to clean themselves and try to mask their natural odour, to little avail.<p>

Mentally discarding these, he sniffed the air again, closer to the ceiling, focusing now on other smells such as the fading but still acrid odour of his explosive devices and the carbon emanating from the small fires they had started. The primarily nitrocellulose stench of the ape's crude chemically-propelled weapons drifting through the tunnels was hard to ignore, but through all of the trails crossing and filling every passage there was the one he had been searching for. There were other scents he didn't recognise enough to interpret, some pleasing, some alarming, others revolting, but the aroma of the goal was still strong enough to follow and trace to its source.

It didn't matter to Fido's eyes that there was very little light as he moved through the small, crude tunnels, occasionally hearing, smelling or on occasion even seeing an ape nearby, but always gliding stealthily past them in the darkness without them ever knowing he was there, let alone close enough to kill them. Individually they posed negligible threat, and he had a powerful, almost overwhelming desire to step right up to them and slit their throats with a single, effortless swipe of claws he had ritually honed only a day earlier, or perhaps feel their necks snap and their windpipes collapse and tear under the force of his jaws, but he knew that now was not the time.

The injuries he had sustained from the blast in the jail cell and the fall on the trinium-rich world weren't life threatening, but even though they were mostly superficial they were increasingly debilitating. The wounds, a few still bleeding, were numerous, extensive and painful enough to make ignoring them difficult even for an experienced Fenrir warrior, and as a result they were definitely affecting his speed, agility and focus. It wouldn't pay to engage any of the apes if it could be avoided. Not yet.

Fido knew these apes weren't stupid, and nothing like as helpless and weak as the ones in the cowering tribes of prey back home – on the rare occasions he encountered them, they always moved in pairs or groups, always armed and carrying small portable light sources that aggravated his eyes. Ascendancy taught that stealth was not cowardly, and that while there was more honour in open conflict, there was no honour in a senseless or wasted death, and as frail and easily hurt as these ape's bodies were, their minds and spirits were sharper, their weapons not weak enough to risk too many engagements. Fido decided he would not underestimate them again.

He stopped and sniffed the air again. The scent was getting stronger – it was no longer just an old trail, but a fresh, strong and distinctive new smell that was nearly impossible to miss. The goal was actively emitting the emergency locator scent in order to more quickly facilitate their reunion, and that meant it had detected his scent closing in. It was close, very close.

But not close enough. The only apparent route to the area where his goal was located seemed to necessitate passing through one of the few parts of the human base that was still lit – and moving under the emergency lights and next to a set of flimsy double doors was one of the apes. It wore the strangely ineffective and unchanging camouflage gear that bore no relation to the granite rock of their base nor the environment of the more primitive humans they had defended the previous day. On its head it wore the lopsided dark green headgear so many of them seemed to favour.

There was no way of approaching the ape without being seen or else alerting it to his presence. No matter. Fido quickly resolved to sprint towards it with one hand outstretched and rip the pathetic creature's throat wide open before it could even make a sound.

Fido backed up a little, then hunched down and launching forward, but he managed only a few strides before the severity of the injury in its leg caused the limb to temporarily go limp and make running next to impossible and it had to support itself on the rough stone wall – in full, illuminated view of the ape that was now staring at him, wide eyed. He had rushed, fully exposing himself to the prey like a weak, foolish, untrained cub, and had done so directly in front of the ape. To its credit, the human yelled but did not run, and swiftly withdrew the small, black one-handed weapons so many of them now carried, nevertheless clasping it two-handed to steady it.

The pistol immediately jerked and a small explosion of mercifully short lived agony erupted high in his chest, quickly prompting an enraged snarl. With a clinking sound, the now flattened copper projectile bounced off his flesh and dropped to the stone floor at his feet.

Seeing the wolf's reaction to the first shot, the ape with the floppy green headgear quickly redoubled his efforts. Several more projectiles hit his chest, torso and limbs in a short space of time, all of them ending up on the floor, and every time the weapon fired, tremendous pain followed. With his right leg hurt badly enough to force a limp and his left arm so bruised and battered as to be next to useless, Fido roared in pain, anger and frustration at the ape.

The projectiles couldn't break skin or draw blood easily without many repeated hits to the same spot, but they still struck with considerable force and left livid bruises that made movement even more difficult as the remarkably painful impacts aggravated his existing injuries, breaking open recently congealed wounds, causing already bruised flesh to split and bleed.

Snarling with rage at his own unforgivable stupidity and the pain the ape's weapon caused, Fido surged forwards, his injured leg forgotten as he shielded his head from direct hits with his good arm. The ape barely backed away at all, only a few steps, still firing even as he loomed over the doomed prey, but despite its courage, its fear was so thick in the air it was almost tangible. It was a thrilling stench that drove him on even more, despite the agony of the weapon's projectiles.

The weapon clicked and emptied, and the ape was clearly torn between running, yelling and reloading. Taking advantage of the momentary indecision, Fido surged forward over the remaining short distance and lashed out with the arm shielding his head.

The backhand connected with more than enough speed and force to feel bones in the prey's chest snap under the impact and lift the ape off its feet. It was hurled through the double doors with enough power to tear them from their hinges and shatter the glass panes in their upper halves and still continue into the room, eventually crashing into a table and collapsing its legs. The ape lay sprawled amidst the wreckage, motionless and covered in its own bright red blood. For a moment Fido paused, savouring the coppery smell and considering whether to devour the fallen ape to regain some more strength and ensure it never woke, if indeed it wasn't already dead, but others would certainly have heard the shots.

Reaching down, he picked up the small black gun the ape had used, but after only a few seconds it became clear that his hands were too large and differently shaped to effectively wield it even if he tore the trigger guard away. There was no way he would be able to actually fire it properly, even if he could reload the empty weapon. With disgust, he dropped the useless device and headed as quickly as his pained leg would allow him to move, all the while heading towards his goal, grateful to be back under cover of darkness.

* * *

><p>In the space of only a day, Lhoaka was showing distinct signs of recovering from the Fenrir assault. Already she could see shops and stalls trading and people beginning to go about their day to day business once again, even as work gangs continued to clear rubble and move dead bodies. A black cloak of grief and loss still sat heavily on the city, but the Lhoakans weren't letting it take over or destroy their way of life. If anything, they seemed to be trying to restore the status quo and move on from the Fenrir attack with so much effort they almost came across as caricatures of themselves. She found herself admiring them for their dogged refusal to let themselves be beaten or unduly changed by their harrowing experience.<p>

For the first time since she had arrived, Halverson just wandered through the city, taking in the sights, sounds and smells. She paused every so often to take a photograph of something that caught her eye, and occasionally found a seat or an out of way spot where she spent a few minutes admiring the architecture or simply watching Lhoakan citizens pass. She idly investigated a couple of shops and their wares, watched as a unit of guards marched through the street in formation and just drank in the atmosphere and the culture, hoping that she would see something that would give her brain a jolt and make her realise what part of the puzzle she was missing. She felt like a picture was beginning to emerge, but that the centre was somehow a black void while the edges were fully fleshed out, and cursed her poor recall again.

"There you are. I know you said you were going to take a walk but it took me ages to find you," Llewellyn said happily as he walked up to the stone bench and sat next to Halverson.

"Radio direction finding?" she asked idly.

"Nope, I just asked Waldroch. See, I'm getting better!" Llewellyn said, earning a brief but genuine smile from Halverson.

"So, what have you been doing all this time?" she asked, more out of politeness than genuine curiosity.

"Oh, you know. Waldroch showed me some of the city's armourers, engineers, fabricators and their places of work so I can begin to gauge how easy it will be for us to advance their tech," Llewellyn said, gazing at nothing in particular.

"He's becoming quite the tour guide, isn't he? I could have sworn he used to be a military officer."

Llewellyn nodded, smiling. "That's the perils of promotion for you – more responsibility, less sight of the job you originally signed up for. I think it's partly because of us," he began. "If you think about it, he's spent more time with us than any other Lhoakan, so he's kind of being made the liaison officer. It's actually a good fit, I think, 'cos he—"

"Don't take away their measurement system," Halverson said abruptly, staring at the ground.

"Sorry, what?"

"Back in the library, you asked me to think about how to mitigate the effects of the bootstrapping on their culture, and I just thought, 'standardisation'. That was going to be your first suggestion, wasn't it? Getting all the engineers and armourers using a precisely standardised system of weights and measures as the first step in bootstrapping their technology to a higher level, just like in the industrial revolution back home?

"Don't make them convert to metric or imperial, or whatever. Let them work with their own measurements: maybe help them to decide on a strict and precise definition of each, but let them keep their equivalents or versions of inches or metres or kilos or whatever. I think it will go a long way towards preserving some aspect of their culture and tradition, plus it might help them to see the change as progressive, beneficial and organic, and not as something being imposed on them by an outside force."

"Okay, great. That's good. I'll recommend that in my report to Webber," Llewellyn said quietly. "Thank you, Elise."

They sat in silence and deep thought for a while as the world passed around them.

"Damn but I wish Kelly was still here. She'd have spotted something that was 'off' by now. No offence, Gareth," she said after a while, smiling a little.

"Don't worry, none taken. Got eyes like a bloody eagle, she has. Still can't work out what it is that's bugging you?" he grinned back.

Sitting upright again, Halverson shook her head and sighed, staring off into space as the crowd bustled past.

"Well… list what you do know. Out loud. I've seen my sister do it loads of times when she forgets what she was going to the shops for, and it helps her nine times out of ten," Llewellyn offered. Halverson looked at him doubtfully before deciding it couldn't hurt and shrugging.

"Okay… okay. So… Lhoaka is a city-state, a trading society at approximately fifteenth or sixteenth century Europe level of development. Their world is close to the Void Prison, but unlike other worlds in the same proximity, they don't have a particularly strong Fenrir myth, just a vague impression, a weak folk memory perhaps. Their history just stops if you go further than nine centuries back and… oh! Oh! Good God, why didn't I see it before?"

She stood up excitedly and quickly half-walked, half-jogged away, politely but impatiently moving through the crowd and against the flow. Bemused, Llewellyn stood and followed her as best he could, often losing sight of her in the crowds and having to scan the pedestrians for a petite woman wearing a DPM smock and with nearly black hair scraped into a ponytail. Eventually he caught sight of her again as she stopped at a picturesque vantage point a full terrace below where they had started. He could see why – it offered a fine view of many of the city's greatest buildings. Jogging, he caught up to her.

"You can really move when you want to, you know that?" he said.

"So Dave tells me. Okay Gareth, pay attention. What's that?" she said, leaning over the stone parapet and pointing. Llewellyn squinted, looking over her shoulder before realising she was pointing at something a lot closer and more obvious.

"That? That's the Shrine of Daphell," he said, slightly bemused, as if he expected the answer to have been wrong or at least far harder to determine.

"Which Waldroch told us is the oldest building in Lhoaka, and trust me when I say, it is _waaay_ older than nine centuries. I'd say twice that at least, maybe even a couple of millennia even in this climate. Now look at it – the architecture doesn't fit with the rest of the city," Halverson said, her tone hovering between triumphant and cryptic.

"Okay, it's old; but architecture moves on, right?"

Halverson shook her head. "Not as dramatically as that, not here. Look around – every single building besides the Shrine and the Bastion is built to the exact same architectural style, even though most of them were constructed decades or even centuries apart.

"It's a common finding across the galaxy – the SGC always found that the most advanced worlds were those with multiple states or societies living on them precisely because that promotes competition and conflict, which drives both technological and cultural advancement. Think Langara with Kelowna, Andari and Tirania, or maybe Tegalus with the Caledonians and the Rand, or the very best example of all?" she said, looking at Llewellyn and prompting him to answer. He simply shook his head and shrugged in bemusement.

"Earth!" Halverson answered. "Two hundred or so independent states, ten thousand years of conflict in all walks of life and God only knows how many distinct cultures and civilisations it's played host to across the millennia. The result is that we were easily one of the most advanced human worlds in the Milky Way even before we opened the Stargate."

Halverson paused as Llewellyn thought it through, realising there was indeed a pattern.

"Most worlds out there only have a single society with a small population occupying an entire Earth-like planet thanks to Goa'uld transplantation," Halverson said. "Even when they weren't kept in check by a System Lord, they often had or have no real competition for territory or resources, so unless they have an adverse environment, find advanced technology or basically have a specific reason to need to advance, they tend to stay the same or at least develop at a very slow pace because there is no impetus, no need to change the status quo. Just think how many societies there are in the galaxy that were transplanted from ancient Earth but have barely changed at all."

"Okay, and I say this knowing history was never a strong subject of mine, but has there ever been a society quite like Lhoaka on Earth?" Llewellyn asked, now genuinely intrigued.

"That's the fun part. Best as I can tell, Lhoaka isn't derived from a transplanted culture on Earth – at least, none that I know of. Instead, I think it's derived from several. I think we're looking at overlapping cultures here – so many disparate elements that only make sense if you separate them into distinct cultural groups, and it's blindingly obvious when you know to look for it."

She turned abruptly, leaning on the wall and staring intently at the crowd as if trying to find something, then triumphantly pointed at seemingly random things that caught her eye – clothing, writing, architectural elements, stylised designs, even actions and behaviour.

"That's clearly of Norse origin. That's… Greco-Roman, I think. North African, Norse again, also Norse, that's… east Asian, apparently, Greco-Roman again…"

"So they've got a bit of cultural cross-pollination going on thanks to the Stargate?" Llewellyn said. "You said yourself that they're a trading society."

"Except it's more than that. I don't think the SGC ever encountered a culture quite like this."

"Okay, that's great, Doc, but what does that mean?"

Halverson folded her arms against her chest, shaking her head and chewing her lip in thought. "Honestly? I have no idea right now. But I do know it's significant, and I'll tell you something else that's important and interesting but for completely different reasons – every single one of the Norse elements I've spotted has something in common with all the others."

"What, like… they're all Norse?" Llewellyn said, feigning mock-astonishment and grinning.

"Since you're going to be facetious, I'm not going to tell you." She said coolly, stepping away from the wall. "At least, not until I've found some evidence to back the theory up – and I think I know what to look for now. Trust me, if I'm right you're going to love it."

* * *

><p>The emergency lighting was adequate where it was installed, but the illumination in most of the Garrison was feeble at best – the state of the base's construction had left entire areas unlit except when they were being worked on.<p>

Taylor fumbled in his pockets for his keys – he had a small white LED torch that was better than nothing, but even so, he couldn't shake the fear and sense of vulnerability that dominated his emotions, suspecting that not only was he was sharing the same space as an escaped and likely enraged Fenrir, the wolf had nearly all the advantages. His heart was beating faster, and he was controlling his breathing so he could hopefully hear the faint click of trinium-laced claws on concrete.

With the torch, there was no longer any need for him to feel his way along the walls and count doors though even in the dim illumination the tiny light afforded him the armoury was very distinctive. He slid his key card through the reader, praying that not all of the base's systems had been affected by the power outage. Nothing happened. He tried it again. There wasn't even a red LED or the angry tone to say his card had been rejected – there was simply no response.

"Come on, don't do this…" he muttered to himself as he tried typing his personal access code manually into the keypad. Again, nothing happened. He tried again and again, to no avail.

Frustrated, Taylor sorted through his key ring to find the base master key. Carefully, he felt for the lock, inserted the key, and cursed as the door swung open with no resistance before he'd even turned it. Playing the LED torch over the inside of the door frame, he saw only a hole where the locking mechanism should have been installed, leading to another hole on the inside wall that was perfectly sized for a card reader and keypad, but with only another bunch of unattached wires protruding, all of them bound with a cable tie and marked with a piece of tape with some handwriting on it.

This wasn't looking good. Cursing under his breath, he pushed the door as closed as it would go without so much as a catch to hold it in place and scanned the torch over the inside of the large, armoured room. He was greeted by masses of heavy duty metal racks built to accommodate hundreds of assault rifles, sniper rifles, pistols, submachine guns, shotguns, grenade launchers, anti-tank rocket launchers, and light and heavy machineguns, and every single one of them was empty, many of the racks still covered in transparent plastic sheeting.

Angrily, he drew in a breath.

"Oh fu—"

* * *

><p>"—crying out loud, people, settle down! You make any more damn noise and Lassie's going to come home. And by 'Lassie', I of course mean… oh hell, you know." O'Neill shook his head and turned, teeth grinding. The news that not only was there a Fenrir on the base but that it had been present for over a day and was now running loose while the Garrison had no power had not been taken as well as he had hoped.<p>

Webber sidled away from the throng of bureaucrats and senior military figures milling around the briefing room, most of them reacting the only way they knew how to heightened threat – bickering and hurling blame. He moved to the door, opening it slightly to check that the two guards he had ordered to stand outside the room had indeed taken up their posts. Against the faint, green tinged illumination of the nearest emergency light he made out the silhouette of a burly, beret-wearing man cradling an SA80. A quick check confirmed he had a colleague on the other side of the doorframe.

"Anything?" O'Neill asked, his diplomacy-induced headache clearly winning as he sauntered away from the still-bickering VIPs, his warning about their noise attracting the Fenrir apparently less important than pointing out who was to blame and who had been against the project from the start. For a moment, he briefly entertained the fantasy of the wolf breaking in, eating the bureaucrats and either sating its appetite on them and passing out before it got to him or else discovering that bureaucrats _really_ did not agree with the Fenrir digestive system.

"We've got our guards, if nothing else. Now we're waiting on Taylor," Webber said.

"I'd help, but I'm not as fast as I used to be, especially with this knee. Besides, it's his… operation," O'Neill offered.

"You can say 'mess', General," Webber said.

"Actually, that wasn't the word or phrase I was planning on using."

Webber continued to stare at the door.

"You don't think he should have brought the wolf back, do you?" Webber said. It was more statement than question.

"Hey, it wouldn't be the Stargate program if somebody didn't do something monumentally stupid every so often. I let Carter deal with her Replicator duplicate because I thought the potential strategic advantage would outweigh the risk, and somehow managed to not only keep my job but not get demoted. What Taylor did is no different, and was probably a better bet to start with."

"Perhaps. But we're ill-equipped to deal with the consequences of that decision, and I had no say."

"If he'd put a bullet in the thing's head, this wouldn't have happened but you'd have learned nothing about the Fenrir," O'Neill said.

As Webber listened, something occurred to him.

"I'll be back in a minute," he said to O'Neill, leaving the briefing room and hurrying away urgently.

"Hey, I'm next. I think it was the lasagne."

* * *

><p>Taylor could have kicked himself. Of course nobody was going to stock a permanently unlocked or unfinished armoury with weapons or ammunition, he realised, angry with himself for even hoping he could acquire a weapon this easily. He had entered in the vain hope that in the time since he left for the combat mission on Lhoaka the previous day, construction of this room would have been completed and the contents of the storeroom on the other side of the base would have been disseminated to the purpose-built armouries, as was supposed to have happened. Either the base was more short-handed than he'd previously realised or their internal communications were screwed long before the power failed. Taylor made a mental note to direct a very stern and decidedly impolite rant at the person responsible once the current crisis was over – assuming he survived it.<p>

Parts of the Garrison's layout had been patterned after Stargate Command with numerous small secondary armouries – little more than locked and heavily reinforced cupboards stocked with weapons, ammunition and vital equipment such as radios and body armour – distributed throughout the facility alongside three large primary armouries such as the one he was currently in. Though unconventional, especially in terms of keeping weapons and ammunition in the same location, it was a system that had served a facility as sensitive and prone to foothold or other critical security situations as the SGC very well.

If the primary armouries weren't finished or stocked, the secondary ones were even less likely to be. That meant there was only one room on the base where weapons were stored, and it wasn't nearby. But just because none of the dedicated armouries were stocked with weapons and ammunition, it didn't mean there was nothing in this room of value.

Taylor made his way through the empty racks and tables to the rear of the heavily reinforced and partitioned room, into a smaller adjoining room lined with metal equipment lockers. After fumbling with his keys for a while, he managed to open several of the lockers.

"Oh, you'll do nicely," he murmured, smiling and gratified to see most of the lockers full to the brim.

He cracked and shook two glow sticks and dropped them on the floor to provide enough light to work by. Moving quickly, he unbuttoned and shrugged off his jacket before storing it carefully in one of the lockers, then loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. Satisfied, he donned a black tactical vest and security belt with thigh holster, both pulled from another locker. The third locker yielded dozens of working radios, one of which he inserted into his vest, and the fourth held torches and other portable battery powered lights of various designs. He put a right-angle torch into his vest and turned it on, scooping dozens of glow sticks, a few working radios and as many torches as he could carry into a sheet of plastic he had pulled from a weapon rack and bunched up to serve as a crude sack.

He left the weapon-free armoury hauling the plastic sack and cracking and dropping glow sticks every so often as he headed back to the briefing room.

* * *

><p>Webber was waiting for him by the open briefing room door, flanked by two armed guards. The base was deathly quiet with no power and so few people moving through the corridors, and it was beginning to get disconcerting. The Brigadier ushered him inside the room.<p>

"Couldn't find any weapons in the nearest armoury sir, it's still not finished or stocked. I'll have to try the storeroom across the base. On a positive note though, I did at least find lights and radios," Taylor said as he handed a large torch and a radio to the Brigadier and several glow sticks to the outstretched hand of General O'Neill, who swiftly began cracking and distributing them to the VIPs.

"It's something, at least. Did you find out what happened?"

"No sir, I thought it best to bring these back first before heading to Section J. All I found was that the power outage and communication blackout both seem to be base-wide."

"On your way to the provisional armoury for a weapon, check in on the control room and give them one of these radios. I want to know the status of the base lockdown. And Major," Webber said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he turned his back on the rest of the room's occupants, "this may help. I made a quick side trip to my office. Since I found out what this job entails and having seen what other rules we've had to break, I decided to always keep one in my desk – regulations be damned."

Taylor looked down, quietly surprised but nevertheless surreptitiously taking the proffered object and curtly nodding grateful understanding.

"I'll be on Channel Three, sir," he said as he left the room and wandered back into the hallways. With the proper military-issue torch in his vest now offering useful illumination, it was an easy enough task to head to the control room.

Even though he remained alert and focused on both his objectives and the grave threat that was very likely wandering the halls of the Garrison unchallenged, a thought kept bothering him – in the short time he'd known him, Taylor had never once known the Brigadier break rules. If anything, his strict dedication to regulation was one of his defining characteristics, and Taylor knew that the necessarily more informal, more flexible and more adaptive nature of the SGC, the SWRS and the Garrison riled him. So the idea of the Brigadier keeping a loaded pistol in his desk drawer despite stringent weapon and ammunition handling regulations was, to say the least, surprising.

Once he was sure he was out of sight of the dignitaries and the guards, he checked over Webber's offering. The British Army called it an L9A1, but to him it was better known as the Browning Hi-Power. It was a pistol he was intimately familiar with but hadn't used in years and even if nine millimetre rounds wouldn't penetrate Fenrir hide, the comforting and familiar weapon would still hurt and distract it, and as such it represented a significant improvement of his odds.

Out of slightly paranoid habit, he ejected the magazine, confirming it held the full thirteen rounds, sliding it back in and chambering a round before placing the weapon in his empty thigh holster. Just having any sort of weapon on his person gave him an extra measure of confidence as he jogged through the darkened passages towards the control room, towards the provisional armoury and eventually towards the Fenrir.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"So what the hell happened, Al?" Taylor said nervously, constantly turning to check behind him. With only the Brigadier's Hi-Power, the idea that the Fenrir might creep up on him was still enough to keep him checking his six on a regular basis.

The scene was grisly, perhaps more so given that they only had torches and the flames of a few small fires to light the area. The thick steel plate of the cell door was warped and buried in the shattered remains of the desk and security monitor, surrounded by concrete rubble. The door frame itself was charred and had large chunks missing from the jamb, resulting in small chunks of rubble mixed in with the splintered wood and spread across the floor. But worst of all were the bodies. Two of them were almost unrecognisable, and though he preferred not to look for too long, Taylor was fairly sure large parts of them were simply gone.

"Okay, so… it was definitely EMP – an incredibly powerful electromagnetic pulse emanating from this room. I'm still trying to work out how the pulse propagated so far while underground, but basically, everything remotely electrical within about twenty metres of this cell door has been utterly fried, and the rest of the base suffered a brief but significant voltage spike as a result, significant enough to trip the circuit breakers and cut the power," Nesbitt said.

"I thought military electrical systems were hardened against things like that," Taylor said, slightly confused.

"Unfortunately, given the base's lacklustre state of construction, much of the current electrical system is basically temporary, an unhardened jury-rigged affair with bugger all surge protection, and therefore it couldn't cope. A few systems still work, but not many, though the safeguards on the reactor kicked in – a full engineering team's heading up there now to reset the system or get the diesel generators running if nothing else. We should at least have backup power restored to most sections in under five minutes," Nesbitt said, covering his mouth and nose with the collar of his jacket. Taylor couldn't blame him – the smoke and dust in the air were bad, but the smell of blood and flesh was far worse.

"Okay… how? I thought you needed a nuke to get an EMP. I know we don't know that much about their physiology yet but I refuse to believe this is some natural ability of the Fenrir – even _my_ karma just isn't bad enough to deserve that."

"It isn't. It couldn't be. Look, with this charring and warping here, you've got evidence of an explosion on this door. Gareth isn't here, but I've spent enough time around him to bet he'd say it was a powerful but shaped charge – I think we're looking at the results of a _very_ sophisticated flux-compression generator; an e-bomb. You basically use ordinary chemical explosives, though in this case Fenrir-strength, to power a disposable EMP generator. The explosion that tore that door of its hinges and killed Private Crossman would have been almost incidental."

"Fido had an e-bomb?" Taylor asked incredulously.

"The wolf must have concealed it somehow, smuggled it in," Nesbitt replied.

"Well, it's not like we did a cavity search."

"Or an ultrasound. Knowing how advanced Fenrir tech is, I'm betting it was pretty small… small enough to be concealed _inside_ its body. Hell, I don't know. Maybe he just regurgitated it or something."

Taylor turned, cursing. "Why the hell wasn't the Fenrir killed by a blast in a confined area like that? It should have been pulped by the overpressure."

Nesbitt shook his head. "Sorry, Dave. I don't know. You'd have to ask Kelly about that, though I'd hazard a guess it's because they're built like brick outhouses."

"Corporal?"

Moffatt looked up with a grave expression. Taylor knew she'd seen horrific injuries and fatalities in her career, but the look on her face said these were among the worst. "We've identified one of the bodies – it's Private Crossman. The rest of the remains are almost certainly Privates Benson and Baxter and Sergeant Maynard, but there isn't much left and they're barely recognisable, especially in this light. I think at least parts of them have been… eaten, sir," she said.

"Oh, hell," Taylor replied, looking at the blood-spattered SA80 rifles the four soldiers had dropped. All of them had been wrecked, rendered unusable and possibly even unsalvageable by Fido's trinium claws ripping through their metal and plastic construction. He certainly wouldn't be getting a decent weapon here.

"As for how the Fenrir survived… well, Doctor Nesbitt's pretty much right. At Porton Down, when they autopsied what was left of the Fenrir bodies they've got there, they found mechanisms evolved for tolerating barotrauma. Basically the aural, gastric and respiratory cavities can completely seal off and then clench for support against overpressure and later equalise safely, but it's probably not reflexive – they need time to enter that state. On top of that, basic Fenrir resilience extends to withstanding concussive force that would probably kill a human stone dead," Moffatt said.

"Right…do what you can here, then get somewhere useful or safe, ideally both. And each of you take a radio," Taylor said.

Taylor took one last look at the wreckage of Section J. Webber would have his head mounted on his office wall for this – he'd said it was a bad idea to have the Fenrir on the base, and now he'd been proven right. But it was hardly important now – the Fenrir was loose and four people were already dead.

* * *

><p>The pair wandered around the town for a while until, to the surprise of neither Halverson nor Llewellyn, it began raining again. A rumble in the sky threatened the strongest and longest downpour they had yet experienced on Lhoaka. They knew it must be about to get bad because many of the Lhoakans, typically indifferent to the near-constant rainfall, were hurrying for cover, packing away stalls or closing up open fronted shops. A few were hurriedly unclogging parts of the unusually sophisticated gutter system running through the city.<p>

However it wasn't just black clouds that made the light falling on the city grow dim, and as the evening began to draw in and the weather got worse, the crowds moving through the streets increased. Most people clearly sought to return to their homes after they had finished their day's work, a few simply finding somewhere to wait out the worst of the weather. Although this time they didn't have the bulk of their bags to carry, Halverson and Llewellyn quickly found that without Waldroch and a pair of guards to lead them or the imposing bulk and visage of Jarvis to assist them in parting the crowds for easier movement, returning to the Lord Governor's palace became a trickier and slower proposition.

By the time Llewellyn and Halverson showed up at the palace entrance and were welcomed back inside by the guards, the air had become cold and wet, the rain now a noisy torrential downpour and the warm light of freshly lit candles, lanterns and oil lamps filled the windows all over Lhoaka. The Lord Governor's palace was no exception.

"How about we stay inside, dry and warm for a while, yeah? No more going walkabout in the city?" Llewellyn said as they stood in the portico and shook the worst of the rain and mud off their clothes. Halverson just glared at him as she did the same, until a familiar voice made them look up.

"Lieutenant Llewellyn, Doctor Halverson? It's good that you're back. The Lord Governor would like to meet with you now," Waldroch said, standing in the doorway with his hands clasped behind his back.

"Gareth, when we get in there… please let me do all the talking. If you get the urge to blurt something out, bite your tongue, your knuckle, I don't care. I said I wouldn't try to derail this treaty, so I'm not going to screw it up – but you might," Halverson said. Llewellyn was still for a few seconds, gazing at Halverson with an inscrutable expression.

"Okay," he said simply with a faint smile and a grateful nod. Clutching the windproof DPM smocks they had just removed, they both followed Waldroch inside as he turned and marched smartly into the main hall. As they followed, a pair of dutiful servants scurried forward to graciously take their bad weather gear off them, smiling as they retreated to what had previously looked like just another wooden panel in the wall but was evidently the door to the cloak room.

Waldroch led them through the palace on a familiar though differently-lit route as the wind whipped past outside, hurling rain at the windows. The Lord Governor was once again sat in the Minor Library, now lit exclusively by a large fire roaring and crackling in the almost walk-in hearth beyond him. Storm driven rain hammered and tore at the glazed ceiling. For a moment, he seemed lost in deep thought.

"Ah, excellent, you're back!" he said, snapping back to reality with a smile almost as warm as the blazing logs. "Please, please, sit and be warmed by the fire – weather as inclement as this must surely have left you chilled and damp. I trust you enjoyed the sights of our city before the clouds opened?"

"Yes, thank you, we did. We learned a great deal as well," Halverson said quickly before Llewellyn could speak. Waldroch ushered them to their seats and took his, all but confirming Llewellyn's theory of him serving as their liaison officer.

"My sincere thanks for your patience, and your interest. I have consulted with the guild masters, the houselords and the grand-captains as I said I would. I apologise for taking so long and forcing you to wait, but of course an issue of such import required considerable attention and debate," the Lord Governor explained.

"Of course. It's not a problem, we've both spent the time learning about your fascinating culture," Halverson said politely. The Lord Governor cleared his throat and sat forward, his demeanour becoming altogether more official and professional. He began speaking in a clear, loud voice that Halverson knew he must use when addressing dignitaries, which she supposed she and Llewellyn were, after a fashion. The thought was almost shocking.

"Admired guests, the Noble Houses of Lhoaka and their devoted peoples would very much like to sign this treaty you have mentioned, and in light of your people's selfless actions in our recent defence we would be most honoured to call you our friends and our allies. Since we have experienced the horror and destruction of these Fenrir antagonists firsthand, no matter how briefly, we fully understand your concerns and appreciate how important it will become that we be able to defend ourselves and refuse them a crucial resource in the Lhoakan shattersilver. We warmly welcome any assistance you can render and knowledge you can impart, and in return we humbly offer our goods, our services, our friendship, our arms and of course – once certain stipulations and terms are agreed – our shattersilver."

Halverson smiled happily, glancing at Llewellyn, who was grinning like a lunatic.

* * *

><p>He didn't move through the darkened tunnels as fluidly as he had done previously – the pain from his injuries was beginning to dominate his thoughts, his perception, and the limp was impeding his progress. But his goal was closer than ever before – he could not only smell it clearly, the changing scent told him precisely which direction and how far away it was.<p>

Something was happening – the faint smell of ozone was building, there was a barely audible hum mounting in the background of his perception, and some of the lights were beginning to glow – only in the infrared so far, but that meant…

With a thumping sound, the base's power systems were restored and lights rapidly flickered into bright life everywhere. Dazzled and half-blinded, Fido yelped and covered his face, squeezing his eyes shut and willing the retinal after-image to fade and for his eyes to adapt to the painful brightness that pathetically weak human vision seemed to require – at times, his race's visual sensitivity could be a hindrance.

It didn't matter so much now – he was close, while his other senses told him that none of the apes were. Though this entire section of the base seemed unfinished, the emergency locator scent was definitely emanating from the room behind the double doors at the end of the corridor.

He pushed the doors open with ease and limped into the room. Several of the ape's crude computers were also thumping and crackling as they returned to life, their displays rebooting even now. Alongside them on the workbench was his goal, attached by cables, shrouded in primitive sensors and wires.

The armour was damaged by both shrapnel and the prying curiosity of one of the ape's scientists or engineers, but he knew there was more than enough redundancy and adaptability built into the design that it wouldn't significantly hinder the performance of the technology within. It was, after all, armour – the ability of its systems to survive damage was something of a prerequisite.

It didn't take him long to pull the human connections out, find all the components of the suit and don them again, even with the pain wracking his body. The bizarre, icy sensation of the armour interfacing with his nervous system felt like a worthwhile reward.

**True ****host ****recognised. ****Dormant ****systems ****reinitialised. ****Urgent: ****you ****have ****medical ****warnings. ****Important:**** significant ****findings**** to ****report**_,_ the armour said. Rather than a voice in his ear, it was a mental impression of the words appearing inside his skull with striking clarity, an internal monologue that was not his.

_Findings?__ What __findings?_ Fido enquired mentally.

**Observed and evaluated ape technology as instructed. Low level anti-intrusion software was triggered by hostile ape faction's investigation. Used ape's own interface device and programming to execute counter-intrusion.**

_What__ did __you __find?_ Fido thought as he wended his way through the passages, sniffing the air to ensure there were no more human soldiers closing in. The lights would make evasion trickier, but by no means impossible and retrieving his armour would go a considerable distance towards once again improving his odds.

**Unsophisticated. Primitive electronic design, minimal wireless connections, no detected intelligence. Much unsecured information subsequently acquired. Security of other sectors nevertheless stronger than anticipated despite technological inferiority. Extensive and effective use of firewalls and physical isolation suggested. Navigational assistance for this facility now available.**

_Ah,__ a __map,_ thought Fido. Quickly, a sense of knowing where he was and where he needed to go flooded his brain, as if he had always known.

**Recommendations: address medical warnings, find system core and execute full decryption of ape language and computer security protocols.**

_No, I wish to destroy these apes, escape this wretched cave and deliver what knowledge I have gained from this humiliating and dishonourable capture to the Warmaster as soon as I can._

**Agreed. Recommended course of action would accelerate and enhance this goal. Combat ability significantly compromised by medical status. Hostile ape combat ability unexpectedly high. System core believed to contain information on facility self-destruct and Travelling Ring interface instructions.**

_Well_, Fido thought as he padded through the passageways and around the abandoned tools of human construction, _that __does __sound __enticing_. Accessing his recently acquired memories of the base's layout, he headed towards his new goal.

* * *

><p>"Once again, thank you so much, Lord Governor. Our diplomats will begin formally drawing up the treaty as soon as we return with the news, and I'm sure they will be very happy," Halverson said.<p>

"Oh yes, and as another token of our alliance and an important first step, we offer you this," Llewellyn said, producing a small black box from his pack, opening the lid and handing it to the Lord Governor.

As the elder man gingerly removed the device from the box, looking slightly confused at the buttons embedded in the grey plastic and the black nylon straps, Llewellyn spoke up again, beating Halverson to an explanation.

"We call it a GDO… though why we call it that isn't really important right now. Our Stargate is protected by a, I suppose you could say a barrier or a shield, really, that prevents enemies from simply walking through our gate. Should you want to send anything or anyone to us through the Stargate, you push these buttons in a certain combination and that tells us that friends are coming through so we can remove the barrier. Before we go I'll show Captain Waldroch or whoever you want how to operate it properly, of course. Our gate address is printed on the inside of the box lid, and it goes without saying that we trust you to keep the address and the combination to our Stargate safe and secure," Llewellyn said nervously.

"Thank you, Lieutenant; that is most generous, and what a remarkable concept!" the Lord Governor said, beaming, perhaps as surprised as Llewellyn that he had not only made sense but done so with clarity and composure.

Llewellyn smiled half with nerves and half with relief, and excused himself as Waldroch and the Lord Governor began chatting excitedly. Halverson wandered over to him as their discussion deepened and he backed away politely.

"Nicely done, Gareth. Quite impressive, really, there might be hope for you yet. Not much, but you know…" she said quietly, grinning.

"Friends," Waldroch said, striding over to them with the box containing the GDO in one hand and a warm smile on his face, "the Lord Governor is retiring early to his chambers for the night, but wishes to extend his hospitality to you. I can tell you that storms such as this are not all that common, and they _never_ pass swiftly. You are more than welcome to stay until it passes, and indeed to remain until the morning if you so wish. Food, drink and beds can be provided with ease."

Happy and a little surprised, Halverson looked at Llewellyn for his opinion.

"Well, the Brigadier basically gave us a pretty open timetable – we go back when we're finished, and I checked in with Lyngvi when Jarvis and Moffatt went back, so… yeah, great! Thanks very much," he said, smiling.

"We'll have to wait it out anyway, thinking about it. I need to talk to the librarian again, and I don't really want to venture out into this weather just to bother her at home in the evening," Halverson said.

"Doctor," Waldroch said, "the librarian lives in the palace. She should be taking her evening meal shortly, so if you wish the staff to prepare you a meal, it would be slaying two hogs with one bolt, as they say."

* * *

><p>"As soon as he found out what was going on, Major Hamilton rounded up a large team and took them towards the surface, despatching units to manually seal as many blast doors as possible as they go and evacuate personnel to safer areas. Just before you arrived I received confirmation that the doors to the surface cave are now fully locked down and isolated. Around half of all backup generators are online, and the reactor should be up and running again inside of half an hour. That said, a lot of our systems are currently only civvie-grade placeholders or interim ones, so although the power is back on we've still been hit hard by the EMP, sir," Sergeant Gibson said.<p>

Behind her, technicians worked feverishly to restore systems in and around the control room. Staring out of the large slanted windows at the front of the room, Taylor could see that although the Gatehouse was dark and deserted, somebody had nevertheless managed to activate manual Iris control and seal the Stargate. That thought alone made him feel a little safer.

"Right, okay, so what kind of timeframe are we looking at for getting everything working again?" Taylor asked.

"Basically, it will take anywhere between minutes and several hours for many of those systems to either reboot themselves, or have engineers manually restore them one by one or else find workarounds, and without the reactor we have limited electrical power, so we have to be careful about how many systems we have active. That means I can't yet give you a full and immediate base-wide lockdown, and we have less than half of the blast doors installed anyway. We can't even lock the Gatehouse down. The best news I can give you at the moment is that we are at least receiving telemetry from a lot of the security and environment-sensing equipment, so we're not as blind anymore sir."

Taylor nodded at Sergeant Gibson's status report as he studied the newly-illuminated map table and the chart depicting the layout of the Garrison. Markers indicated which doors had been reported as sealed, and which had teams heading towards them to seal them. Numbers written in blue ink showed how many occupants had been confirmed in various sections, and Taylor quickly noticed that the bulk of the base's current population were residing in the upper base where most of the quarters were. The lower half of the base was very scarcely populated, and that concerned him.

"Also sir, as you can see the control room was badly hit, but the security hub was inactive when the EMP went off, so everything there is working," Gibson added.

"So we can transfer critical control to the hub, which would be a better place to coordinate the hunt for Fido anyway. Very good, Sergeant. The moment the ability to perform a full lockdown or in any way seal off all or part of this base is restored, you do it. Don't wait for authorisation, consider this it – you hit that button. That order comes from the Brigadier, who'll be along shortly to oversee things. I'd suggest radioing him about the security hub ASAP."

"Yes sir. I'll stay for now to transfer control to the hub and get this room as operational as possible."

"Al, get yourself to the security hub," Taylor said into his radio.

Taylor glanced around the control room. While the lights were on, some of the dozens of monitors showed nothing but solid blue and white text, while others were filled with code jerkily scrolling upwards and a handful were actually depicting the output they were supposed to – and three were showing bizarre, fractured patterns that suggested they wouldn't be showing anything useful again. Some of the technicians hurried between terminals and tried to bring more systems online, but time was of the essence.

"Sir, we're ready to try locking down the control room. The Gatehouse is still not responding properly though," one of them said, lying on his back under a desk with a panel open and circuit boards exposed.

"Go for it," Taylor said grimly.

Gibson nodded and flipped back a clear plastic cover on the main console, exposing a large red button surrounded by black and yellow striping. Without hesitation, she pushed it down with the heel of her hand. Orange warning lights began flashing and a barking tone sounded repetitively, but nothing else. Taylor began to wonder if the Gatehouse wasn't the only system that wasn't responding properly.

A second later, hydraulics and powerful electric motors came to life.

Outside the control room, heavy-duty steel roller shutters descended from their hidden recesses in the ceiling, moving along rails to cover the outside of the large slanted windows. The door leading from the control room to the Gatehouse closed and locked hydraulically and another steel shutter began rolling down to cover that. Taylor knew from one of many briefings and many of Llewellyn's excited ramblings that these were no ordinary security shutters – each slat was made of high grade steel several centimetres thick. Behind him, the control room's main entrance sealed and locked itself.

"Good, but shouldn't they be faster than that?" Taylor asked. He had replaced the crude plastic sack he'd used to hold gear from the armoury with a proper kit bag that sat on the map table, and he fished around inside until he found the object he wanted.

"Sorry sir, system's still a bit screwy," the technician said.

"Right, Gibson – until communications are fully restored and in case we lose power again, take this radio. I'm on—"

An alarm, an insistent electronic tone, began emitting from Gibson's sole functioning terminal.

"Sir! New problem! Something has penetrated the mainframe room," Gibson said hurriedly, staring at one of her working monitors.

"You! Get that door open, now!" Taylor barked at a tech near the control room's sealed exit. He turned back to Gibson. "Mainframe room. That's Section…?"

"Section L, Level 4," she said, turning and pointing to the location on the chart. "It's trying to hack our computers. Network security is going mental – we've got wide-scale brute force attacks taking place throughout the system."

Taylor had already left before she turned away from her monitor, running through the Garrison's passageways, grateful for the recently restored illumination. As he ran, charging up steps and ramps and hauling himself around corners, Gibson updated him over the radio.

"I thought we had top-of-the-line digital security?" Taylor asked as he ran.

"Firewalls and encryption are buying time sir, but that's all. I have Doctor Nesbitt standing by to talk to you."

"Nesbitt! You hearing this? How the hell is Fido doing that?" Taylor said as he ducked under some low hanging cables.

"I heard. It must have retrieved its armour from my lab," Nesbitt said.

"What?"

"Dave, if you're right, that Fenrir is an infiltration and sabotage specialist, and if _I__'__m_ right, that armour contains a neural net carrying an artificial intelligence designed for the express purpose of hacking and hijacking enemy networks."

"So a wolf in the mainframe is—" he panted as he skidded round another corner.

"Extremely bad on _way_ too many levels. You've got to stop Fido fiddling with the computers, but listen – try not to trash the room. If it gets away, we'll need the mainframe operational to initiate the lockdown once the systems reboot."

"Oh, no problem! I'll just hit its nose with A ROLLED UP NEWSPAPER!" Taylor yelled breathlessly as he pulled himself up another flight of steps.

"What the hell are you talking about, Dave?"

"Al, all I've got is a nine mil pistol that'll just piss it off. More!"

"There's got to be _something_ you can do with it."

"Fenrir are tough. Nine millimetre rounds can't penetrate their skin… hang on. It's tough, but it isn't Superman." Taylor said, thinking out loud.

"What do you—?"

"Weak spots, Al. When I find it I'm going to shoot that thing in the bloody eye!"

* * *

><p>"Good God! What is <em>that?<em>"

"What's what?" Llewellyn asked, looking up from his side of the table.

"The meat, Gareth! It's bloody gorgeous! We've got to get them to trade this stuff. I've never tasted roast pork like it," Halverson said, smacking her lips and wiping away the patina of grease with the back of her hand. Her mouth full, she replaced the floppy mass of dark red meat and coarse brown bread on the pewter plate.

"It's not roast pork, Doc. It's roast wild boar," Llewellyn said, grinning as he took a huge bite from his sandwich and sniffing one of the odd-looking lumps of cheese the kitchen staff had put on their plates before making a face and deciding against it. "Remember the archer I told you about, Sam? While we were looking for the Major yesterday he mentioned that he spends a lot of time in that huge forest outside the city walls. Turns out he can keep his archery skills sharp _and_ make quite a bit of extra cash by going hunting. The place is bloody crawling with wild boar, he said. No need to even farm 'em, just wander around for a bit and shoot one, then run like hell if you miss. Nasty, bad-tempered buggers apparently."

At the revelation of the meat's origin, Halverson's eyes lit up. "Boar? Of _course_ it's boar. That explains the odd leather as well, and what Waldroch said, 'two hogs with one bolt'. God, why was I so _thick?__"_ she said, smiling as if it should have been completely obvious. She scribbled something in the always open notebook lying on the table next to her plate.

Llewellyn put down his sandwich, still chewing vigorously, and wiped his hands on his trousers, frowning at Halverson as he picked up the mug of fruit juice the kitchen staff had furnished him with. Halverson had suggested it after tactfully hinting they should probably avoid the local water until it was properly tested. Llewellyn had previously refused every drink that was even remotely alcoholic, which seemed to comprise the bulk of Lhoakan beverages, on the grounds that he was still technically on duty until he got back to the Garrison. Happy to be both a civilian and a champion of diplomacy and cultural immersion, Halverson had no such qualms and had elected to test the hot, cloudy local cider as recommended by Waldroch.

"Okay Doc, are you _ever_ going to tell me this theory of yours, or am I just going to have to start guessing?"

Halverson just smiled cryptically.

"In time, don't worry. You can probably start putting some of the pieces together now, if you try. Thing is, I'm pretty sure I'm right, but I really want to be able to back it up with evidence. And here's the lady to ask!"

The librarian was a mousy-haired middle-aged woman who was evidently of the Lhoakan middle class. She smiled at them as she carried a plate and mug of her own to the table and sat down.

"My thanks go to both of you for the invitation. The hours I keep in tending the libraries mean I am not often afforded the chance to dine with others," she said. Llewellyn was quietly amused that her voice was significantly louder and more sonorous than he had expected coming from a librarian.

"We're definitely not imposing ourselves on you, or interrupting anything?" Halverson asked with a degree of concern.

"Not at all. As I said it is a rare privilege, and personally, I find it is a delight to speak to somebody on subjects so dear to me. You had some more questions to ask me?" the librarian said, beginning to carve bread and meat for herself.

"Well, first off – I'm ashamed to say I don't actually know what your name is. I'm Doctor Elise Halverson, that's Lieutenant Gareth Llewellyn, and you are…?" Halverson prompted.

"Maheld. The Lord Governor's Archivist Maheld Strancha of the House Ulmra," the librarian said, smiling and dropping several slices of bread and boar on her plate.

Halverson had just taken another large bite of the crude but tasty sandwich, and Llewellyn took the opportunity to get a question of his own in.

"So you're, like, the head librarian and the head historian, have I got that right?"

Maheld nodded agreeably. "Yes, quite right. More so than the majority of his predecessors, this Lord Governor is very fond of books and learning. He places a very high value on education, and for everybody, not just nobles and officers. He is quite keen on exploring our history, especially since it is often so confusing or empty.

"If you've met him, you'll know he spends much of his time in one of the libraries. Early on in his tenure, several decades ago now, he elevated the roles of librarian and historian beyond their usual standing in Lhoakan society and created a prestigious new position, the Lord Governor's Archivist, to oversee the preservation and exploration of our history."

Halverson listened intently, nodding every so often and writing quickly in her notebook. For a while, they all focused on eating and in Halverson's case, also scrawling notes and a crude spider diagram.

"I remember now, Doctor, earlier you asked about the beasts that attacked us the other day and if we had any record or recollection of such creatures. I said that to the extent of my understanding we didn't, but it occurs to me I may have overlooked something. Some have suggested to me today that a very old tale may hold the key. Few know of it now, and when it is told, it is used to frighten children, nothing more. I found the only record I could of it. It tells of a creature that prowled in the forest, a hairy demon that would hunt and eat men. The beast was called Vnrysvr."

"Vnrysvr? Oh, that makes a lot of sense, actually," Halverson said.

"It _does?__"_ Llewellyn said, baffled.

"Oh yes. All through Norse myth, the wolf Fenrir was known by many names – Vanagandr, Hrodvitnir, Fenris and… drumroll please… Fenrisulfr. Now say Fenrisulfr ten times as fast as you can. Go on."

Llewellyn sat upright, cleared his throat and started rapidly repeating the name over and over. When he eventually stopped, he stared at Halverson.

"See? That last one sounded similar. Over the centuries, the name Fenrisulfr was probably corrupted until it became Vnrysvr, and elements of the original story get forgotten or twisted. Maheld, does the tale say anything else?"

"Not really. There is very little information I could find, I'm afraid – it is an extremely old tale that is simply not spoken of anymore," Maheld said apologetically.

Halverson nodded, as much to herself as Maheld. "That theory of mine is gaining weight. Maheld, I'm beginning to think that earlier, when I asked if I could see Lhoaka's historical texts, I should have said Lhoaka's _oldest_ texts. History isn't always found in the history books," Halverson said.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Section L appeared to be a large box-like concrete structure sat on a concrete apron inside a larger natural cavern, both equally bathed in yellow from the sodium floodlights bolted to the craggy ceiling. It also appeared to be cold, loud, highly industrial and apparently uninhabited, and as he approached Taylor slowed to a quick walk as much to catch his breath as to move stealthily. He was naturally fast and extensive training had granted him excellent stamina, but holding a conversation with Nesbitt as he charged through the base had taxed him.

Quietly, he pulled the Hi-Power from his thigh holster, thumbing the safety and raising the pistol ahead of him before whispering "Radio silence" into the mouthpiece of the radio on his tactical vest. How he was going to take on the Fenrir and not simply become its next meal was still beyond him – at this point he was reacting as much as improvising, but if anybody on the base could shoot Fido in the eye with a pistol, it was him. For as long as he could remember he had always possessed a remarkable talent for marksmanship, one of many reasons he had joined the Army.

The base possessed a remarkably large and unusually well-equipped data centre for several reasons, chief among them being that although they still kept the DHDs attached, offworld bases were required to have dialling computers serving as intermediaries for security, diagnostic and automation reasons. Since the local DHD had been badly damaged and rendered almost unusable in the Battle of Lyngvi the Garrison required considerable extra memory and computing power to assist with Stargate operations, though the presence of at least some functional DHD systems and components meant it still paled in comparison to the SGC's mammoth array of supercomputers dedicated to much the same purpose.

Inside the windowless concrete cube, the data centre itself was one of the largest rooms Taylor had seen in the base outside of the Gatehouse and some of the larger storage chambers, large enough to require concrete pillars at regular intervals to support the ceiling. The huge, cool, well-lit space was filled to capacity with neat rows of black cabinets with blinking LEDs and a surprisingly loud noise somewhere between a hum and a dull roar. Even so, Taylor padded quietly between the racks, carefully checking each aisle before he encountered the wolf. He quietly slipped back into cover, glancing around the edge of the electronics filled cabinet at his quarry.

Though Taylor was observing it from behind and it had its crude-looking asymmetric armour back on, Fido somehow seemed to be in a worse state than the last time he had seen it. Small patches of its unkempt fur were matted by blood while in other areas it seemed to be thinning or outright missing. The Fenrir seemed to be weakened, in pain, barely able to use its left arm, and most tellingly it appeared to have developed a limp as it constantly shifted weight off its right foot. He began to feel his odds had improved.

Fido also had one of the cabinets open, exposing the electronics and computer cores within. The Fenrir seemed to be fixing a small bronze disc it had pulled from its armour to one of the computers and attempting to interface its armour with the equipment. It was focused on the task and it helped that it had its back to Taylor as it worked. Despite its sensitive hearing, it seemed that the noise of the computers and their necessary air conditioning had masked Taylor's approach.

Taylor continued his stealthy movement, cautious of his surroundings and keeping himself in the Fenrir's blind spot, wondering if the armour's sensors would alert it to his presence. He ran through a tactical assessment of the situation and quickly determined the course of action that offered the best chance of success and survival. He would be firing non-lethal rounds from close range into an already-angry hostile alien that was twice his size, at least twice as fast, easily ten times stronger and had already claimed four lives in the last half hour alone despite being wounded. Best chances weren't necessarily good chances.

No warning. No order to stand down, or freeze. No chance to resist or escape. It had killed four soldiers already and critically wounded a marine, and it would wipe out the entire base if given the chance. Fido had to die if Taylor was going to stop it from killing anybody else, and all he had to do was work out how to kill it.

With the alien only metres away he carefully knelt down and aimed carefully at what little he could see of the back of its head, the largest area of unarmoured flesh that would also – hopefully – prove to be a vulnerable area. It was a tricky shot given that the naturally hunched stance of the Fenrir meant their long and wide necks were almost horizontal, the mass of muscle and spine shielding most of their skull from the rear. Taylor surmised that either way it wouldn't be a kill shot – he doubted such a thing was even possible with this weapon – but it would almost certainly stop Fido in his tracks.

He squeezed the trigger.

The crack of the pistol was louder than the roar of the computers, and the red-hot copper bullet was on target, slamming into the back of the Fenrir's skull almost precisely halfway between its large triangular ears.

Roaring with pain and surprise, Fido pitched forward involuntarily, barely catching itself on the cabinets to either side. Recovering quickly, it whirled with lightning speed, snarling and lashing out ineffectually, only to see the human that had captured it crouching down and squinting over the top of another small black gun that fired again almost as soon as it saw it.

Because of the Fenrir's speed and motion, Taylor's second shot wasn't as accurate as the first, but it still hit the alien in the head. Fido howled as the round punched into the thin flesh of its cheek and bounced off. Enraged, the creature launched itself forward with alarming speed, clawed hands reaching for him, jaw hanging open and its left eye already shut as the flesh immediately below it began to swell.

Prepared for this, Taylor immediately threw himself to the side, perpendicular to the Fenrir's lunge, and half rolled, half pushed himself upright out of its path. The Fenrir had reacted on emotion and instinct and subsequently over-committed, ensuring that it couldn't change direction fast enough and instead sprawled into another row of cabinets, denting their covers. Taylor quickly took advantage and fired two more rounds into its head, one striking the muzzle and the other connecting with the wide forehead.

Taylor quickly stepped back as he realised he was too close, unintentionally giving the alien time to lurch to its feet and swing its arm towards him.

Grunting, he ducked, narrowly avoiding the huge but fast limb, and quickly followed up by firing the Browning Hi-Power straight into the exposed throat of the alien. The bullet smashed into the dewlap protecting the Fenrir's neck, but the folds of flesh had evolved to protect the throat against slashing and tearing attacks, not high velocity strikes and the projectile continued to its target almost unperturbed. The force was considerable, prompting the alien to clutch at its throat and gag for air from the impact. He began to line up another shot straight into Fido's eye, but the flailing limb returned and knocked him to the floor. The tactical vest absorbed the worst of the impact, leaving him more surprised than winded. Having been hit by Fenrir before, he knew there hadn't been much power behind the blow and he had been lucky the claws hadn't connected – he still had the three parallel scars on his chest.

To Taylor's astonishment, the staggering, gurgling, agonised Fenrir standing over him chose not to finish him off but to do something entirely unexpected.

It ran.

Even with a limp, it was fast, but unsteady until it dropped to all fours and sprinted for the exit furthest from its human attacker, slamming through the double doors and almost ripping them apart in the process. Scrabbling to his feet and swearing under his breath, Taylor began sprinting in pursuit. The Fenrir was fast and agile, but clearly hurting enough that he stood a chance of catching it if he really pushed himself.

Jumping down the second flight of metal steps in the dim stairwell, Taylor just caught sight of a grey-brown tail disappearing rapidly through a powered and reinforced sliding door. He sprinted after it, trying desperately to keep up but not wanting to walk blindly into an ambush that would likely see the Fenrir waiting for him to follow whilst hiding somewhere out of sight and then simply gut him with its claws as he moved past. Noting how increasingly dark his surroundings were, he clicked on the right-angle torch in his tactical vest.

While the data centre had been large, it was serviced by a room below it that was very likely larger, and distinctly more industrial in tone. This was not a room built for people, but machinery. Poorly lit and occupied primarily by huge air conditioning and cooling systems that kept the multitude of computers above from overheating, it also held banks of batteries that were supposed to ensure uninterrupted power flow while the emergency diesel generators – of which he could see two in this room alone – kicked in and was supported by several very heavily built concrete and steel pillars. Part of Taylor's mind was surprised. Technology like this didn't impress or interest him particularly, but it was evident that this room represented one of the few parts of the base to have been not only finished but remarkably well-funded.

This was also a room where regular or even occasional human occupation was clearly believed to be so unnecessary or unlikely that accommodating people had definitely not been a design feature, evidenced by the lack of proper lighting, clearly defined paths, handrails and even the normally ubiquitous health and safety warnings. While this made navigating the endless machinery and ductwork tricky, it had its advantages. With Fenrir being substantially larger than humans, Fido had been forced to pick its way around and over the air conditioning systems to reach the second sliding door visible on the far wall, and it was barely more than halfway across the room when Taylor entered.

"STOP!"

It didn't. Swiftly, Taylor fired three more rounds into it, one each hitting its neck, shoulder and armour, the last casting a plume of sparks.

Howling in pain, the beast quickly dodged to its left and hid behind the nearest pillar, the only place close to hand where it couldn't easily be seen or shot.

"There's nowhere to go, Fido," Taylor said, aiming with one hand as he slapped the large square button that closed the sliding door behind him and then switched his radio back on. "Gibson – I have it cornered in the room below the data centre. It's wounded."

"Roger that, sir, I'm redirecting the closest squad. Backup is on its way," she replied, efficient and cool as ever.

He could see the Fenrir slowly shifting in its hiding spot, turning around and trying to see where Taylor was without presenting enough of its bulk to serve as a target. As its muzzle began to poke further out, Taylor aimed and fired. With a shower of sparks and a loud metallic ricochet, the shot hit the steel I-beam running up the side of the pillar only centimetres from the protruding snout. Fido quickly retreated behind the pillar again.

"When you captured me, you said that as long as I was alive, I would stand a chance of escaping, prey. I remember that 'a cat in hell's chance' were your words, even though I do not fully understand them," the Fenrir said in its strange, trembling, growling faux-human voice.

"Yes, I know what I said, and for your information, a cat in hell's chance is no chance at all, Fido. Right now, you have two choices."

Swiftly, Taylor ejected the magazine in the pistol, holding it in his free hand while he loudly opened an empty Velcro-sealed pouch on his tactical vest, fumbled around in it and then reinserted the exact same magazine into the Hi-Power. He knew he only had four rounds left in his one and only magazine, but he was counting on the Fenrir not knowing this and hoped the show, a calculated risk, would make the alien think twice about attacking him or trying to run again.

"You can either be a good boy and go back into imprisonment, or you can try and run and get brutally gunned down in the process, dying alone, in agony and by the hands of your prey. I mean, wow, how embarrassing and dishonourable must that be, right? In the interests of fairness though, I feel I should say that I have no strong feelings either way, so it's up to you, Furball," Taylor said whilst simultaneously praying that Gibson's backup would arrive soon and be packing more substantial firepower than he currently possessed.

Taylor watched and waited, the Fenrir's furry outline just visible on both sides of the pillar. He had a good line of sight and plenty of space to act no matter what it decided to do. Fido was clearly weakened and in considerable pain from its escape, and after enduring a very close anti-tank shell detonation, a long fall, an equally close quarters explosion in a confined space and being shot with the side arms of the Royal Marine guard and himself, he guessed it didn't relish the thought of being hit again, even by nine millimetre pistol rounds.

It was hard to tell with the pillar blocking most of the view of the Fenrir fugitive, but it seemed to be stretching upwards, and if he was hearing that noise right, it was sniffing something. Taylor risked a quick glance at the ceiling, noting the ductwork, the cable runs, the very few lights and the red pipes running everywhere that all converged on a row of large, equally red canisters standing on the floor against the far wall.

He thought quickly, trying to remember what Sergeant Gibson had said to him. Fido had attempted to hack Stargate control, security, self-destruct and environmental systems. Nesbitt had said the armour likely held an AI meant for hacking and co-opting enemy systems, and Taylor had seen the small bronze device the Fenrir had placed in the computer. Had that been another explosive device, or something else?

"Dave… environmental controls in Section L just went nuts," Nesbitt said worriedly over the radio.

Taylor looked up again with a sense of dread.

With a loud hissing roar, the nozzles on the ceiling-mounted red pipes quickly began discharging a heavy white gas throughout the entire room, a slightly chilled dense white fog collecting at ground level and flowing over the lower pipes and ducts. Almost at the same time, obscured by one of the falling plumes, Fido broke from cover and sprinted for the far door.

Holding his breath just a fraction too late and resisting the powerful urge to cough building in his chest, Taylor quickly recovered and squeezed the trigger. The first shot went wild, punching a hole in an air conditioning unit, the second smacked the Fenrir's armour dead centre with another fan of sparks, while the third and fourth landed on its exposed shoulder, hitting very close to where he had previously shot the alien.

With two shots in the same area, the skin broke and he briefly caught sight of black fluid spurting from the creature's shoulder. Bleeding or not, the alien kept moving as with a barely audible roar it hit the button that opened the far door and almost exploded through it, escaping the room and the gas quickly filling it.

"Dave, get out of there!" Taylor heard Nesbitt say faintly in his earpiece.

His lungs were complaining already as the white gas turned into a thick blanket that flowed over the machinery up to chest height, completely hiding the floor, and he immediately knew there was no way he could make it to the other side of the room and pursue Fido.

"Dave? Dave!"

He stumbled towards the exit with hands outstretched, cracking his shin against a hidden air duct. Unable to hold the tainted air in his lungs any longer, he almost collapsed into a paroxysm of violent coughing as he pushed the button to open the door and almost fell into the passageway outside, kicking at the button to seal the room again as he lay on the ground, alternately coughing and breathing deeply as his head span.

"Dave!" Nesbitt yelled again.

"Hurgh… I'm here, Al." He gasped after a few seconds, coughing again. "What was that?"

"That was carbon dioxide at a potentially lethal concentration. That room has a total flooding fire suppression system, but it shouldn't work like that. Fido must have bypassed the safeguards."

"Devious little mongrel, isn't he?" Taylor said, forcing himself upright and staring at the Brigadier's pistol, now empty and useless. "Tell me the men Gibson despatched caught it."

"I'm afraid not sir. Units are still en route," Gibson said over the same channel.

"Right, that's it. Turn them around. I'm heading to the provisional armoury and getting a proper weapon. Get every available soldier over there now, including Hamilton's group, because we're going to put this thing down once and for all."

* * *

><p>After they had all finished their meals, Maheld found a lantern, using a taper to light it from the candlestick on the table they had all shared. She guided them through the dimly lit palace into the Grand Library, walking towards one of many unremarkable wooden panels that filled the gaps between the bookcases and casually pressed it until it clicked softly and gently swung away from the wall, revealing a narrow, unlit hidden passage beyond.<p>

"Oh that is just too cool for words…" Llewellyn murmured as they entered, Maheld leading the way with the lantern raised and Halverson following.

"You can leave the door to close on its own, Lieutenant, it is quite easy to open from this side," Maheld called back as they descended the worn stone steps. There were no handrails and only the rough stone walls on either side to hold onto should they slip and fall, which seemed like a distinct possibility given how treacherously smooth and worn the steps felt.

The steps turned ninety degrees twice and delivered them to a dark chamber.

"You know, I'm sure I've seen this room somewhere in Oblivion," Llewellyn murmured as Maheld's lantern cast warm but weak light across the room. The librarian turned, her face confused and inquisitive.

"It's best just to ignore him, Maheld. I mean, you know, all the time," Halverson said apologetically. Maheld grinned and turned back to her task.

"Only now I can't remember if it was Chorrol or the Imperial City though."

"What are you talking about?" Halverson said, whirling to face Llewellyn, clearly irritated.

The archives that sat beneath both the Minor and Grand Libraries were a far cry from the intricate craftsmanship and splendour of the rooms above, or indeed the rest of the Lord Governor's palace. The room felt like a medieval castle's dungeon with the racks, bars and manacles replaced by cabinets, trunks and bookcases. Windowless and dark, with plain walls composed of rough stone bricks, the room was clearly intended for storage and nothing else, a repository for the tomes and scrolls that were too old, warped, damaged or in any way too unsightly for display in either the Minor or Grand Libraries. In this space and seemingly in contrast to the rest of Lhoaka, wood existed for purely practical and functional reasons – heavy, rough timbers reinforced the roof while the room was filled with plain and simple furniture, a lot of it as old as their contents.

Maheld set the lantern in the centre of a table, the flickering candles within making the shadows they cast jitter.

"Hmm. Maybe it was Anvil. I'll tell you now, if that wall retracts to reveal a mist-wreathed altar, I'm bloody legging it," Llewellyn said as he gazed at the contents of a book shelf near to him.

Sighing, Halverson turned to face him, her expression plain and disinterested. "Gareth?" she said, her tone even.

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

Grinning, Llewellyn nodded obediently. Seeing Maheld struggle to identify different items with only the relatively feeble light of the lantern to work by, Llewellyn unclipped his pack and rummaged inside, pulling three long objects out and handing one to Halverson. Snapping and shaking the other two white glow sticks, Llewellyn handed one to Maheld, who was surprised to find the bright white object was cool to the touch.

"It'll only last a few hours, but it's safer than an open flame," Llewellyn said.

"You possess flameless candles?" Maheld said incredulously. Nodding gratefully, she went back to scanning the books and scrolls in front of her with the glow stick in her hand, but after a while shook her head in annoyance and turned back to Llewellyn and Halverson.

"The document I think you need to see is very fragile, so we keep it locked and sealed in an old dark oak chest about so big," she spread her arms about half a metre apart, "and has black metal hinges, though I find now I cannot remember which chest it is. I fear it may take a while to locate due to being difficult to spot amongst all of this," Maheld said apologetically, using the glow stick to inspect behind a stack of scrolls.

Llewellyn dropped his glow stick on the floor to provide general illumination and pulled out his torch. Halverson quickly followed suit and sighed as she cast around the room, taking in the sheer number of chests and even greater number of hiding places where half-metre wooden boxes could be stored.

"Damn it. Where's Moffatt when you need her?"

* * *

><p>With thirty soldiers standing in front of it, the provisional armoury had also become a provisional briefing room.<p>

"Right listen up! We have got a Grade-A situation on our hands and time is of the essence. There is a Fenrir loose, and it's already killed four men and put a fifth in critical condition. It's got the run of a partially-constructed base built to comfortably support three hundred people but currently staffed by only seventy, fewer than half of whom are even combatants. Even with power back up it just has minimal lighting and frankly pathetic security camera coverage to overcome, and the mutt seems to be heading for the surface. It probably knows or can guess that security around the Stargate will be tighter and heavier and therefore the surface offers the best chance of surviving, of getting lost and making it even harder for us to find." Taylor said, slotting full magazines into his tactical vest as he spoke.

"There are a numerous construction workers, technicians and other non-combatants – including a dozen VIPs – that absolutely need to be kept safe. Hopefully it won't go after people who aren't in its way and don't try to take it on, but I don't know that we can count on that. Even though Sergeant Jarvis brought our rifles back from Lhoaka," Taylor said, nodding in the direction of the giant standing at the back of the group, "we are still limited in resources to fight this thing, mostly people. With the Brigadier's permission, I've pulled pretty much every combatant we have, including most of those on guard duty, and after that we still have only thirty people to sweep this entire base, so be thorough as hell and make sure it doesn't get past you."

"What are our rules of engagement, sir?" one of the Lieutenants asked.

"Ideally we want to take it alive, but realistically that's unlikely and far more dangerous, and we've already lost good men today. We have no zats, no intars, no stunners and only half a dozen tazers – and we have no idea how well they'll even work against this thing. So, we're going to proceed with termination as the preferred course of action and recapture in distant second place."

Taylor looked at the men assembled in front of him before he continued.

"For those who haven't fought them yet, I will reiterate what you already know. Fenrir are incalculably dangerous, cunning and intelligent. They have natural night vision, probably some degree of heat vision – think Predator, not Superman – and their other senses are very likely just as acute. They are stronger than grizzly bears, tough as hell and faster than you might think possible. Do not underestimate how dangerous they are – if you get a shot, make it a whole magazine's worth."

To emphasise the point, he slid the magazine into the HK416 in his hands, grateful for a weapon that could actually kill the Fenrir, not just hurt it.

"I want six teams of five men apiece. I'll authorise one tazer per team as a contingency, but you all still need to carry light machineguns, assault rifles or at the very least, P90s, something armour piercing. Pistols just piss it off, and it's already in a really foul mood as it is. The Brigadier and Sergeant Gibson will be coordinating the search from the security hub, but internal communications are still mostly down, so use your radios – sparingly."

The men quickly began splitting off into teams of six, guided by their NCOs and the few officers present. Others began issuing weapons and ammunition from the store room behind Taylor. Jarvis, who had been waiting and listening patiently at the back of the group, moved forward to Taylor.

"Do you want me on your team or leading another, sir?" he asked.

"Actually Sergeant, neither. I know you'll hate me for this, but there's another task I have in mind for you. Very high priority, really requires somebody I trust, somebody who knows what they're doing and somebody that nobody would dare ignore or disagree with."

"Sir?" Jarvis enquired, slightly perplexed.

"Right now, the largest component of this base's population is civilian – engineers and construction workers, and some scientists and technicians. Hamilton's already got most of the ones in the upper levels rounded up, but there are plenty of stragglers in the lower half because we don't have base-wide communications back up. On top of that we've got injured in the infirmary and the new medical staff, and then of course we've got _them_ to contend with."

"Them? Oh, no! Sir, please! Let me lead one of the teams instead!" Jarvis pleaded.

"Sorry, no. Grab whatever gear you think you'll need and head down there, then round up everybody you can find and get them all somewhere safe and secure. I've already radioed ahead and sent Moffatt to wait for you to help coordinate the evac. I'm counting on you, Sergeant."

* * *

><p>"Found it. I think. Is this it?" Halverson said, carefully freeing the small chest from the books on top of it and slowly removing it from the cabinet. Llewellyn came over and played his torch over it to give Halverson more light to work by as Maheld looked over Halverson's shoulder.<p>

"Yes, this is it. You will need to be very careful."

Moving slowly and steadily as much because of the weight as for the protection of the document inside, Halverson carried the chest over to the table in the centre of the archive while Llewellyn and Maheld hurriedly cleared a greater space for it and moved the three glow sticks to provide greater illumination.

As Halverson carefully set it down, Maheld produced a small key and set about opening the centuries old lock. Halverson delved into her pack and produced a black nylon bag. Unzipping it, she removed an illuminated magnifying glass and a pair of white cotton gloves.

"If it's as old as Maheld says it is, I'm not taking any chances with it. Could you set my laptop up for me Gareth? We might need translation software."

The lid creaked open jerkily, centuries of wear and warping having taken their toll on the hinges. Maheld carefully removed the wooden tray within, the underside of which was lined with a velvet cushion, revealing the document.

"My word," Halverson breathed. Sat on a flat, matching velvet cushion, the three pages were old. Even with reasonably careful handling, the centuries had taken their toll, the stained parchment having long since turned yellow, the edges crumbling and ragged. Large sections of text had gone missing from the damage, a multitude of worn creases, frayed holes and tears, a few bad stains and even what looked like scorching near the edges. Most of the ink was faded enough to be hard to make out with the naked eye, and Halverson immediately saw that the text didn't match anything she had seen elsewhere in Lhoaka.

"These three pages are all that remain of what was once apparently a book, or one of its many copies, the oldest we know of, and no scholar in Lhoaka has been able to translate the writing or even determine exactly who wrote it despite numerous attempts at both over several centuries. We don't even recognise the symbols," Maheld said reverently as she stared at the three sheets of ancient parchment.

"I do. Or something very close to it, at least," Halverson said.

"You _know_ this language?" Maheld said in astonishment.

"Oh yes, studying it's how I got my doctorate."

"Wait… are those what I think they are?" Llewellyn asked, pointing carefully at the symbols.

"Yes, they are. Runes. This is Proto-Norse written in Elder Futhark, or close derivatives thereof. Both were used in Scandinavia and Germanic regions until about the eighth century, and thanks to Sophus Bugge, I know how to read it," Halverson said triumphantly. "Or I would if I actually could read it. This document is so damaged and old I don't know how much I'll be able to translate. Bring my laptop over, would you?"

As Halverson worked, patiently examining the aged parchment with her magnifying glass, Llewellyn stood back, realising they wouldn't get answers soon.

* * *

><p>Sergeant Jarvis rounded the corner wearing a tactical vest and a foul expression, walking quickly and angrily towards Moffatt. He carried a second tactical vest in his right hand while his trademark Minimi light machinegun hung by its slung in front of him and his right hand clutched a bulging olive drab kit bag.<p>

"The Brigadier went to the hub to oversee the search op, Sarge," Moffatt said brightly as she waited in the corridor, a small medical pack on her back.

"Put this on, quickly," he growled at her, handing her the tactical vest as he walked past. Taking a deep breath and exhaling, he opened the door to the briefing room and ignored the torrent of abuse and demands to know what was going on.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" When the situation called for it, he could be remarkably loud. "I am Sergeant Jarvis and right now, we have a situation developing on the base. For your safety, we're going to move you all to a more secure location not far from here, so please be ready to move out in sixty seconds."

"What kind of situation, Sergeant?" Sir Melford asked.

"I'm not—"

"I said, what kind of situation?" Melford said again, louder and more firmly, the voice of a man used to getting his way.

Jarvis scanned the crowd of suddenly expectant and inquiring faces, others already formulating questions and demands of their own. Among them, O'Neill surreptitiously nodded at Jarvis.

"Alright. There's a Fenrir loose on the base. It's killed four soldiers already, put another in critical condition in the infirmary and we have no idea where it is. So while Major Taylor and the Brigadier oversee the search-and-destroy op, I'm to get you somewhere safer." Deathly silence descended over the bureaucrats and senior officers as they absorbed this news and in some cases, re-evaluated opinions and priorities.

Jarvis turned to the two guards outside the briefing room. "Carlson, Glenn, you're now with us," he said. The two marines nodded before stepping away from the door and taking up positions in the corridor to better cover the dignitaries as they left.

"General O'Neill, sir, if I could have a moment," Jarvis dropped his voice so only O'Neill could hear him as the USAF general approached him, the bureaucrats already regrouping and loudly demanding a better course of action while Major Davis tried to calm them. "Hopefully you won't need it, but just in case…" Jarvis said, pulling a P90 and a magazine out of the kit bag.

Nodding sombrely at what the gun represented and what it said about the situation that was developing, O'Neill took the compact weapon, expertly loaded its magazine, chambered the first round and comfortably held it like it was a long lost extension of his body.

"Okay. Lead the way, Sergeant."

As the dignitaries slowly quieted down and lined up in readiness to leave the room, Jarvis handed Moffatt the kit bag and indicated that she should open it.

Gingerly, she clipped the second P90 to her vest's harness and loaded the weapon.

"I've said it before and I'll damn well say it again. Fenrir don't give a damn about Geneva or Hague Conventions, Corporal. Medic or not, you see that wolf, you shoot it, because it won't give you or anybody else a second chance. Trust me, you'll still be saving lives."

She nodded gravely. She understood what was at stake, even if it went against everything she'd been trained for and every belief she held dear. The Fenrir was too great a threat for her legally recognised medical aversion to carrying and operating firearms.

"Where are we headed sir?" she asked.

"Briefing room's a death trap," he offered by way of explanation.

"It was?"

"Yup. One exit, thin walls, and a door as strong as damp cardboard to a Fenrir… we're going to put this lot in an empty storeroom and wait it out. Major's orders."

Moffatt considered this as she hefted the P90 uncertainly, warily checking over her shoulder. "Steel door, thick concrete and granite walls. Sounds ideal," she said, nodding approvingly.

"I hope so, Corporal," Jarvis said brusquely.

"Except… isn't the nearest storeroom at least two levels down and one section over, Sarge?" She said, worried.

"Yup. That's why we're legging it."

* * *

><p>Halverson walked back up the steps wearily, rubbing her aching neck as she stepped back into the Grand Library carrying the now extinguished lantern in one hand and her gear in the other. She had been craning her head over the document for hours through the night, meticulously translating as much as she could and photographing the document in as much detail as possible so she could examine it digitally at leisure. To her surprise, there was some light coming through the library's windows, enough to suggest that it was the local equivalent of four or five o'clock in the morning but still filtered through rain. The storm had at least died down a little.<p>

"Done already? So, what did you find out?" Llewellyn said, rubbing his eyes and stretching as he woke from his resting spot in one of the library's chairs. In the chair next to him, Maheld woke slowly, yawning.

"That I badly need a cup of tea, some paracetamol and at least ten hours of sleep," Halverson said as she trudged towards the seat next to Llewellyn and slumped into it.

"Tea and painkillers I can do, as long as I can get some hot water from the kitchen," Llewellyn said, rummaging in his pack. Grinning from ear to ear, he quickly produced a cardboard box with the words 'MoD use only' and 'Not for resale' printed on the top. "Thank God for Ration Packs, eh?"

Halverson smiled as he began pulling out the sachets of sugar and instant white tea, and handed her ibuprofen from his small medical kit.

"As for the document… I didn't find all that much, I'm afraid. It's definitely older than nine centuries, without a doubt, though I would need to take it back to the Garrison or the SGC and get the antiquities research department in either to run a whole slew of tests on it to determine exactly how old. If I had to guess, I would say it dates from roughly the same period as the Shrine of Daphell, about fifteen to sixteen hundred years ago."

Maheld was awake enough now to join in the conversation. "Did you decipher much of it?" she asked, somewhat blurrily, staring bemusedly at Llewellyn sifting through the contents of the ration pack.

"I could make out some scattered words and phrases, and more than a few that didn't translate. Most of the text was basically illegible though due to sheer age and use. It's probably from Lhoaka – it mentions rain and trees too much for it be anywhere else – but if I'm reading it correctly, the Stargate was inside a hill back then, and there are several references to things called the 'Khoree' and something about 'visits from the Guardians'. Towards the end, the writing changes a little, and I think it talks of a dark sky, and not in a good way. I think the overall text is historical in nature, or quite possibly a memoir. It's hard to tell with so few words to work with."

"Could you make out who wrote it?" Maheld asked. Halverson yawned.

"I'm not sure. It's hard to tell but I think I identified one name written in a way that suggests it is the author's. I think it's a name, at least if current Lhoakan names are any guide… does 'Preedroch' ring a bell?"

Maheld sat up bolt upright, awake. "Preedroch wrote that document?" she said, astonished and suddenly animated.

"Who's Preedroch?" Llewellyn asked.

"Many of the texts that talk of Daphell and her beliefs and work were written by her contemporary, Preedroch. Though it was believed none of his original texts survived, many were transcribed and have been copied down the ages. He is regarded as our foremost and possibly greatest scholar and a rather mysterious character in Lhoakan history. A few suspected he was the author of that document, but nobody could prove it or even translate it."

"Shame the document isn't in a better condition, really. Can't exactly nip down to Waterstone's and grab a new copy," Llewellyn said as he gathered up the packets and metal mugs and started to head to the kitchen.

"Gareth… you brilliant idiot, you just gave me an idea," Halverson said suddenly, smiling excitedly.

"Oh, I hate it when that happens," he moaned. Halverson ignored him, still smiling.

"I think I know where to find another copy of that text."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Despite the pain, he was relishing every second. The thrill of the hunt mingled with the excitement of being pursued itself, and the apes were putting up a greater challenge than he was used to. His wounds were shallow but extensive, impacting his movement, and while most of them had already coagulated the constant pain kept him conscious and alert, reminding him not to take chances again. He couldn't move nearly as fast as normal, but he could still move fast enough to outrun the apes. Already he could smell the human prey spreading through the base, looking to hunt him down, the faint chemical signs of their fear and trepidation adding a delicious tang to the air.

One of the patrols was approaching, the voices of the fragile apes hushed as they coordinated clumsily with their pack-mates. As frail, hated and weak as they were, they were nevertheless somehow admirable in their determination, and their skill was certainly among the highest he'd seen in most prey. They didn't flee at the very sight of danger, they confronted it, and he understood that what he had initially believed to be reckless stupidity in the face of a threat that outclassed them was in fact a surprising new trait, and as that was something he was barely used to it was both a source of frustration and sheer joy. He had never truly encountered prey that fought back.

The room was dark, the beams of the ape's lights dancing across the walls. Their larger weapons could kill, he knew that. Not immediately, even if he hadn't been wearing his armour, but quickly, and as primitive as they were they were easily damaging enough to cause him concern – especially in his weakened state. But the apes, he knew, didn't have the shadow-sight he and his kind enjoyed. Darkness was like blindness to them, unless they could bring light in that made their presence known. That was still his greatest tactical asset.

He understood their curious language; he could easily mimic the odd sounds they made in the back of his throat and converse with them if need be, but right now, it was more important that he listen.

"Check over there. Behind that box. Evans, cover him. For God's sake Henley, keep watching the bloody door!"

He weighed his options. Evasion wouldn't be as easy as he first thought, especially with the injuries he had sustained, but he couldn't afford to take out all of these prey-apes and risk being hit by their projectiles. It was best to remain cloaked in shadow and wait for them to pass. The hallway they had come from was well lit, but empty, and he could tell from the scents in the air that these apes were the only ones in this section.

They were passing by, heading towards the room's other exit… but one of them was turning. In a few seconds its torch beam would pass over his leg. It was close, close enough to reach out and kill, a single swipe through its exposed neck, but that would do nothing to stop the other four.

Ignoring the waves of pain surging through his battered frame, he exploded from his hiding spot, grabbing the stunned ape by its throat before its light had even illuminated a single hair in his coat, squeezing to prevent it making any sound. He acted quickly, stepping to one side until the remaining apes, only now reacting and turning, were almost perfectly lined up – and then it threw. Had the wolf known what bowling pins were, it might have appreciated the analogy as the startled prey were knocked down with considerable force by a high velocity, airborne member of their own kind who ended up slumped against the wall on the other side of the chamber, unconscious.

He ran. Though his injured leg prevented him from achieving his full speed, he dropped to all fours to take the strain off and move faster still, pounding down the corridor cut into bare rock far faster than any of its human prey. With luck, they would have been so disoriented they wouldn't know which way he'd gone.

* * *

><p>Lhoaka was almost empty so early in the morning, a fine drizzle filling the chilled air.<p>

"How the hell did you get permission to do this, Doc?"

"Well, these two helped greatly," Halverson said, indicating Waldroch and Maheld leading the way down the steps in front of them, both released from their usual duties for the day and therefore wearing clothing that was considerably more functional and informal than usual – it was particularly jarring seeing Waldroch without his armour – and each also carried a leather pack and an unlit lantern. "The Lhoakans don't have quite the same taboos about this sort of thing as we do, so when I explained to the Lord Governor that I think I may be able to shed light on major aspects of early Lhoakan history, with Waldroch vouching for us and Maheld explaining what we'd already found… well, he practically bit my hand off and wrote and signed the warrant there and then."

As he walked ahead, Waldroch turned and spoke over his shoulder: "My presence here today is officially to serve as the Lord Governor's representative and observer, to ensure that our kin and their possessions are treated with due respect and that you do not stray outside the bounds of the warrant," he said sternly.

"And unofficially, First Captain?" Maheld said lightly.

"Hold a lantern, lift heavy objects and do what the three of you say," he said, smiling.

As Maheld and Waldroch started chatting amongst themselves, Llewellyn turned to Halverson. "So go on then, this theory. I think I've waited long enough to hear it," he said, smirking.

"Well, I'll give you part of it. If I'm right, the original Lhoakans were transplanted here from somewhere in Scandinavia somewhere between seventeen or maybe as long as nineteen hundred years ago based on their old language and customs. Now, about nine hundred years ago there was a cataclysm, an ecological catastrophe that began to kill off life all across the planet – I don't know what, maybe an asteroid impact or a volcanic eruption, who knows? Point is, the Lhoakans were dying out, and probably only able to survive by means of the Stargate."

They walked for a little longer in silence as Llewellyn began to absorb Halverson's theory, his face crumpling as he concentrated. History had never agreed with him.

"Anyway, the cataclysm passes, but they are still faced with their imminent extermination due to being severely under-populated, so they had two courses of action, namely evacuate to another planet, or the exact opposite – try to entice people to come to this one. For whatever reason, they chose the latter and an influx of people from other worlds settled Lhoaka. However, the original Lhoakans were too few, and while elements of their culture eventually got assimilated into that of the newcomers, most were completely forgotten. So now the majority of Lhoakans are probably descended from offworld settlers who brought their cultural customs with them, diluting or outright burying much of the original culture but retaining key elements. That explains the apparent Norse origins but the strong Mediterranean influences, which I think came from a Goa'uld transplanted Greco-Roman culture," Halverson said triumphantly.

"So… you're saying that this is the Planet of the Italian Vikings?" Llewellyn said. Halverson glared half-heartedly at him.

"What I'm saying is that the true Lhoakan society is buried. I'm also saying that everywhere I look now, I see how the cultures are layered, the original early Norse-descended Lhoakan culture underlying everything like a foundation, occasionally slipping through, but mostly hidden or altered by the more recent stuff," Halverson finished, gazing at her surroundings.

The Shrine of Daphell was an impressive and clearly ancient building up close, but they weren't going to enter. Instead, they were walking around it, the four of them heading for the large archway at the rear that lead into the hill itself. Llewellyn whistled appreciatively.

"Doc, if you were right when you said the Stargate used to be inside the hill, and if that's the original archway, well, the size alone backs that idea up. It's easy enough to imagine something the size of the gate passing through those," Llewellyn said, gazing at the tall metal gates filling the arch.

It took several of them to both unlock and open the large gates, the hinges creaking loudly. Standing at the threshold of the dark tunnel ahead of them, Waldroch and Maheld hefted their now-lit lanterns while Halverson and Llewellyn both produced their torches and clicked them on.

"Always did enjoy playing Tomb Raider," Llewellyn said with a grin as they entered.

* * *

><p>"Damn it, we lost it in Section M. Evans might need to get to the infirmary. No idea which way it went. Sorry, Major, it took us by surprise." The transmission ended. Periodically other reports would filter in from other team leaders about cleared sections and sealed doors, while Gibson relayed orders from Webber or technical updates and Taylor offered more tactical insights.<p>

Moffatt looked around fearfully and raised the P90 a little higher as she scanned the chamber ahead. Jarvis had ordered her to take point – her gift for observation made her that much more likely to spot the Fenrir ahead of them than he was, and he had assured her that sustained fire from her, especially combined with the assistance of General O'Neill next to her, should be enough to take it down, badly wound it or at the very least fend it off if they encountered it. Marines Glenn and Carlson kept the middle of the procession in order while Jarvis held the rear by himself, warily checking behind himself every few steps. The dignitaries were surrounded on all four sides by armed combatants herding them to something resembling safety.

"Corporal Moffatt, is it?"

Moffatt turned to see the faintly smiling face of Douglas Moore, the Ministry of Defence representative. "Yes sir," she said, smiling in return, facing forward again.

"Tell me Corporal, what part of the base is this?" he asked lightly, as if they were merely on a tour of the facilities. Either he had become divorced from reality or he was coping with the threat better than the other non-military dignitaries. She immediately wondered if he had prior military experience.

Moffatt looked around, trying to find a decent answer to his query. All she could see was an elongated, poorly-lit chamber of the Garrison's cave network. It had been filled and fitted with a level concrete floor, and it was easily long enough to take at least a minute to cross. There was evidence that eventually there would be rooms and corridors branching off the main walkway, but for now there were just a handful of half-assembled breeze block walls along one side and endless, scattered pallets of plastic wrapped construction materials. Dispersed among these were the tools and equipment of the construction workers who had long since vacated the area. The entire zone smelled of sawdust and fresh mortar.

"I think this is going to be another office block eventually, but it's hard to tell. All I do know is that it's the fastest way of getting all of you into a more secure room, and with a Fenrir loose, speed is of the essence. We have no idea where it is right now."

Moore nodded appreciatively and understandingly, and stepped back to once again join the larger group, where Melford was grumbling and preaching to anybody who would listen about how he would ensure this grievous lapse in security would be the end of the Garrison.

"Section N cleared and sealed," she heard in her ear.

Though the way ahead of her appeared clear, she felt exposed and vulnerable – there were unfinished rooms, nascent corridors leading off the main route they were taking through the chambers and so many construction supplies, and each one was a potential hiding place or ambush site. It didn't help that she was well aware that the Fenrir could be anywhere and with so few blast doors even installed, let alone securely sealed, it wouldn't necessarily stop the alien even if they could reboot the corrupted base mainframe and finally put the lockdown into effect. There were walls between her and it, but no true barriers – they occupied the same uninterrupted space, and that was not a good feeling.

"How much farther, Corporal?" O'Neill asked, quietly and slightly impatiently.

"Uh, not too far sir. Maybe another minute. Or two," she said uncertainly.

She had seen what a lone, wounded Fenrir with no equipment had done to the four guards in Section J and she wanted nothing more than to get into that storeroom.

Section J, she thought. Then it had been detected in Section L, and just now in Section M. That meant it was heading up, towards Lyngvi's surface. Major Taylor could easily intercept it if that was the case, since the blast doors had been closed from the main cave entrance downwards and the layout of the cave system the Garrison had been built in provided several natural chokepoints in addition to the other obstacles. But it had to be more clever than that. Everything they had seen of the Fenrir suggested high cunning and intelligence.

She wondered if she was just being paranoid or if her subconscious alarm was sounding.

"Hold here," she said abruptly, initially unsure as to why she had said it.

Ahead of her, she saw a faint shadow from behind a wall shift position ever so slightly.

"Sarge! We need to move!" she called, her heart hammering.

The Fenrir burst out of its hiding place, charging at incredible speed on all fours, silver teeth bared as it roared at the throng of suddenly terrified business-suited dignitaries.

O'Neill opened up first with Moffatt a second behind him. P90 fire raked across the chamber, tiny explosions of stone, wood and plasterboard rippling towards the alien beast. The Fenrir jinked from one side to the other, dodging the incoming fire for a few seconds before launching itself off the ground, bounding over a tall stack of bags of cement mix.

O'Neill adjusted his aim and fired a short burst, but the Fenrir dropped low to the ground and quickly disappeared down another side passage before any of his rounds could hit.

"Everybody move!" Jarvis shouted, scanning the chamber for any sight of the alien. The VIPs were already trying to charge to the other side of the room, Moffatt and O'Neill barely staying ahead of them.

"There!" Glenn shouted, firing his SA80 at a brief glimpse of the beast as it flanked them.

The Fenrir reappeared, and it wasn't far from Moffatt. Shakily, she fired as the alien closed in, once again jinking and dodging. Just as she thought she would either hit it at point blank range or it would run into her, it kicked off a wall and down the side corridor near to her, out of sight – even alone, injured and unarmed, the damn thing was playing with them.

"C'mon! Everybody move!" Jarvis yelled. The far door was in sight and Moffatt ran now, leading the group towards the relative safety of the store room, keeping her eyes peeled for any sign of the approaching werewolf. Behind her, Jarvis sprayed a short burst of his Minimi.

A choked yell behind her made her turn in time to see a large, furry hand wrap itself around Glenn's head and swiftly haul him off the ground. Screaming, his flailing legs disappeared into the darkness as something snarled, and the VIPs quickly sprinted away from the area. Seconds later there was a sickening, wet crack and a spray of blood from the corridor, and Glenn instantly went silent.

Jarvis barged through the dignitaries, his Minimi raised and his tactical light on, scanning Glenn's last position. Whatever he saw made his jaw clench, and he quickly fired a long burst down the corridor. Nothing screamed or slumped to the floor – there was only the ricocheting sound of the rounds hitting concrete walls.

"We have to move, now!"

* * *

><p>The catacombs that riddled the hillside beneath Lhoaka were vast, and old. Different sections had clearly been excavated and built at different times – some were well constructed, built with brick walls and stone slabs, the ceilings arched and reinforced to support the weight of the hillside, though even these varied wildly in age and architectural techniques. Others were just crude tunnels hacked out of the rocks, and some sections branching off the main root-like tunnel system had even been sealed off, bricked up or filled with rocks for reasons unknown. The only element common to every part of the catacombs were the loculi, cavities recessed into the walls that were each large enough to hold a large sealed casket. The designs of the boxes within each loculus varied even more than the construction of the sections of the catacomb, but they were always substantially larger than their Earth equivalents.<p>

"Seriously, how long are these tunnels and just how many are there?" Llewellyn said, casting his torch disinterestedly over another coffin.

"Why don't you just come out and say 'Are we there yet'? Oh, wait, hold up Gareth," Halverson said from behind him.

"What is it?" Llewellyn said idly, pausing and looking over his shoulder as Halverson walked up to his back.

"Nothing really, you just have a spider on—"

Llewellyn immediately jumped up and started flailing at his back, swiping desperately and making strange panicky noises. Seeing the arachnid eventually bounce onto the floor, he stared at it with undisguised, wide-eyed hatred for a second as it righted itself and began to crawl away before raising his boot.

"Oh don't!" Halverson said as the Size Ten combat boot smashed down on the hapless spider. "You didn't have to do that."

"I _hate_ spiders. Hate them!" Llewellyn spat, shivering involuntarily and staring at the crushed remains on the stone floor.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me! Seriously? You're afraid of spiders?" Halverson said, before she began laughing, walking past Llewellyn chuckling and shaking her head. "Colin is going to love this. Alien werewolves? Pfft, no worries, but Itsby-bitsy spider comes out to play and you scream like Ned Flanders."

Before Llewellyn could reply, the sound of rapid footsteps echoed through the tunnels and Maheld reappeared behind them.

"Waldroch has found something and I believe it may be it, if only because it must certainly be the oldest part of the catacombs we have yet discovered. However, there is a slight problem," she said, slightly out of breath, disappearing again almost as quickly as she had appeared. Halverson and Llewellyn quickly followed, watching their step on the loose, cracked floors.

"Holy cow – you call this a slight problem?" Halverson said as she approached.

The tunnels here were easily the oldest they had encountered yet largely by dint of their depth and distance from the entrance but also their construction, and the runes crudely scratched into the wall backed up Maheld's suspicion. The huge plug of densely packed rock and soil that sealed the branch of the tunnel system dampened their hopes though. Waldroch stood in front of it with arms folded, studying it intently.

"We looked around on all sides. There are more blockages everywhere we look. It is almost as if an entire section of the catacombs were sealed off, or perhaps caved in," Maheld said.

"And we're at the deepest part of the catacombs yet, if not the deepest part in total, on a direct line with the entrance. If it's going to be anywhere, it's here. Damn it. Are none of the rocks loose? Maybe we can pull them down," Halverson said.

Llewellyn walked up, examining the plug and the ceiling above it with intense concentration, mouthing things to himself and knocking experimentally on parts of the blockage.

"What are you thinking there, Peter Parker?" Halverson said.

Llewellyn turned to look at Halverson. As he unclipped his pack his face split in two with a huge grin.

* * *

><p>With Jarvis and Carlson heaving on it from opposite sides the heavy steel door thudded shut and locked, cutting off the sound of some of the dignitaries already moaning about the accommodations. Breathing a sigh of relief, Jarvis clicked his radio.<p>

"Major Taylor sir, the VIPs are now secure. Marine Carlson is with them inside the room and they're locked in, but we lost Glenn while we were moving them. He was killed almost instantly."

"Holy crap – killed? Are you telling me—" Taylor began, shocked and angry.

"Yes sir, the wolf doubled back and is now in the lower part of the base. I don't think it's toying with us any more – it seemed to move off after it killed Glenn, heading towards Section B. We're heading back to evacuate others to secure areas, if possible," Jarvis said as he and Moffatt jogged through the passages, heading back the way they had just come.

"Son of a bitch! Standby Sergeant. The damn mutt's more trouble than it's worth – it's been playing us from the start. It moved from Section J to Section L, then Section M… except it was never headed for the surface, it was just putting in a few appearances in order to draw the bulk of our forces away," Taylor said, once again over the radio.

"From the VIPs?" Jarvis said, slightly confused.

"From the Stargate, Sergeant. It was hacking the base computers, and that means it may be able to dial the gate and escape with everything it's learned here – like our location, intelligence, technical specs, gate address database – and how to dial in to the Void Prison. If it gets that data back to the other rogue Fenrir…"

"Understood sir. Stop it at all costs."

"What can we do, sir?" Moffatt asked.

"With the exception of yourselves, all of the people left in the lower base are civvies or non-combatants. I'm bringing the search teams back as fast as I can right now, but with the blast doors sealed behind us it'll be a few minutes before we're there, so if it is going for the Stargate right now, and we have to assume it is, it's all up to you now. You're the closest armed unit, and you have to do whatever it takes to stop the Fenrir."

* * *

><p>Whistling happily, Llewellyn kneaded the off-white plastic explosive and jammed it into a crevice before moving around the blockage and casually setting a second charge.<p>

"Watching you with that stuff is scary, do you know that? I can imagine you as a kid, jamming Lego detonators into plasticine and pretending to breach the side wall of your sister's Barbie's Dream House," Halverson observed, leaning against the tunnel wall a few metres away while Llewellyn worked.

"Nah, she never liked Barbie."

Halverson watched Llewellyn work for a while longer, until a thought occurred to her. She had been too preoccupied and angry to chase it up earlier.

"What was it you saw?" she asked softly.

"I'm sorry?" Llewellyn answered blithely, smiling.

"Earlier… I mean, yesterday, in the library? You said something when we were arguing about the Lhoakans and the tech-sharing treaty, and I'm sorry, I didn't immediately realise you were trying to tell me something important," Halverson said, her voice low so that Waldroch and Maheld didn't overhear the conversation.

Llewellyn didn't respond, acting as if he hadn't heard a thing.

"When you… when I clearly touched a nerve, you said you had seen the very worst of war, and… I don't think you were talking generically. I'm so sorry, but what was it you saw Gareth?" Halverson went on, her tone unusually tender.

"Okay, we're getting there, just one more charge to set and then we can enjoy the fireworks," Llewellyn said abruptly, focussing intently on his work. Even from her vantage point, Halverson could make out his jaw muscles constantly clenching and unclenching, immediately understanding she wouldn't be getting an answer, and her gut wrenched as she realised not only why, but what she had just done.

"Seriously, another charge? You really need that much bang, or did you just spot another web?" she said as brightly and loudly as she could, forcing a smile. She hoped Llewellyn would take the way out she had offered him.

"Hey, you might find the whole spider thing hysterical but it's no laughing matter to me," Llewellyn said a few moments later. "I didn't actually mind Afghanistan until I found out about the bloody camel spiders. Spiders of any type freak me out," he said, shivering involuntarily and quickly returning to his normal self.

"Yeah, I noticed, but still, you probably shouldn't kill them you know. Apart from the ecological argument, lots of people believe that it's pretty bad luck to kill a spider."

"Well, I've killed hundreds, probably thousands of the things, so I must be the unluckiest explosives expert ever," Llewellyn said lightly, chuckling as he moulded another chunk of PE4 and wedged it amongst the rocky debris. Eyes wide, Halverson quickly made the decision to move significantly further away from him as he pulled the detonators out of his satchel.

"As for the blockage, I'm not using that much, only about half a kilo total. The aim isn't to obliterate the blockage and shower us with stony shrapnel, just to loosen and topple it enough that we can get into the tunnels behind without bringing that ceiling down on us. Take out the bottom and the rest should come gently tumbling down. Okay everyone, we need to back up," Llewellyn said, ushering the other three further away.

Once he was satisfied they were far enough away and protected by a right hand turn, Llewellyn turned to the two Lhoakans.

"This is going to be very, very loud, so cover your ears," he said, putting earplugs in before pulling a small dark green handset with a stubby black aerial from his vest. Arming the detonators, he flipped up the cover on the bright red side switch mounted on the side before checking that Maheld, Waldroch and Halverson all had their hands firmly over their ears. He grinned at them.

"FIRE IN THE HOLE!" he yelled loudly.

* * *

><p>"Sarge, shouldn't we check on the infirmary, make sure the Fenrir hasn't hit them?" Moffatt asked as she jogged along behind Jarvis.<p>

"We don't have time," Jarvis replied irritably.

"It's literally on our way, and besides, I think I can pick something up that'll _really_ help us out. A lot."

"Be _very_quick."

Impatiently, Jarvis nodded and watched as Moffatt pushed through the double doors. With little choice and hoping to speed things up, he followed her inside. The infirmary seemed to have come through unscathed and unvisited by the Fenrir – Lance-Corporal Graves remained peaceful and unconscious in his bed, his arm in both a cast and a sling, a dressing on his head and a drip in his arm. Next to him, a monitor beeped rhythmically. The three Lhoakans and the critical marine occupied another quartet of beds, each similarly hooked up to monitors and each clearly having been grievously injured. The marine seemed to be in the worst shape of them all, with his chest buried under dense dressings and a ventilator by his bed.

Jarvis and hospitals of any description had an uneasy relationship – for one reason or another, he had spent far too much time in them for his liking, and the distinctive sounds and smells always put him in a bad mood, though as a result he had developed a healthy respect for the professionals that filled them.

It seemed that Doctor Nelson and the few staff he had available were busy restoring the few items of electrical equipment that hadn't survived the electromagnetic pulse and power outage untouched and preparing for the potential and anticipated casualties of the search and destroy operation. Jarvis watched as Moffatt half walked, half ran up to Doctor Nelson and talked to him for a few seconds, gesturing urgently. The doctor nodded and quickly proceeded towards a locked supply room with Moffatt in tow.

It didn't take Nelson and Moffatt long to procure and prepare the items she needed, and she emerged from the supply room less than a minute later.

"Can we go now?" Jarvis screamed impatiently. Moffatt nodded fervently.

* * *

><p>The explosives had worked perfectly, generating just enough force to cause the blockage to loosen and spill into the tunnels in front and behind without excessively disturbing the caskets stored on either side or causing worrying structural problems.<p>

"Nice work! It won't even be a tight squeeze getting through," Halverson exclaimed, picking her way over the settled but uneven rubble and ducking her head to avoid smacking it on the tunnel roof that was suddenly a lot closer than it had been earlier.

On first inspection, the tunnels beyond the blockage were no different from the ones they had been wandering through for hours, still lined with crude boxes, a handful of which had split and spilled their contents through sheer age. Then the party turned a corner.

"Grace of Daphell…" Waldroch murmured as their combined torchlight bathed the chamber in front of them.

"Oh, wow. This is _very_ interesting," Halverson said to herself, almost whispering. The chamber was unlike any they had seen elsewhere in the catacombs, huge and ancient and easily qualifying as a full blown cave. A few caskets, all of them remarkably old yet unusually elaborate and well made, still lined parts of all of the walls except one. The cave wall in question was completely blank and untouched, though a raised stone platform had been erected in front of it.

"That dais confirms part of what Preedroch had written," Halverson said, staring at the platform. "Look at it. The steps are wide and shallow, easy to move up and down even with heavy loads, and the platform itself is pretty heavy duty and well-sized. It's got a slot cut into the stone, with… yep, with a curved bottom, and finally, you've got these wedge-shaped stones on either side of the slot, acting almost as chocks. It's pretty obvious this was where the Stargate used to be. Preedroch was right, it was actually inside the hill all those centuries ago."

"Why'd they move it?" Llewellyn asked.

"No idea. Not yet, anyway. We need to start searching."

* * *

><p>Time was short. The air was filled with the strengthening scents of apes and their weapons, and his ears were picking up the sounds of blast doors being opened. He would have to act quickly in order to escape.<p>

Naquadah itself didn't really smell, but the creation of a wormhole left an unmistakeable sharp tang in the air for a long time afterwards. There was no mistaking the aroma of the Travelling Ring and he growled contentedly as he opened the metal hatch, revealing a large, dark chamber composed primarily of exposed rock. To his right was a structure elevated above the floor, heavily armoured and sealed with metal slats, while the Travelling Ring itself stood at the far end of the room, dormant and blocked off by a fan of interlocked metal blades protruding from a recess within the Ring itself.

Yet there was no pedestal, no apparent means with which to control the Ring or retract the blades. How did these apes travel if they did not have a pedestal?

**Decrypted and translated information from interrupted download suggests the apes do not possess a fully functioning pedestal. A crude approximation has been constructed with their computer technology.**

_Then __how __do __I __activate__ the __Ring?__ Force __the __blades __apart __and__ spin __it __by __hand?_ Fido thought as he sprinted up the metal steps to the armoured structure, prowling around and staring at the slats. They were strong, high density steel, treated to make them heat and chemical resistant, and he quickly found they were far too strong for him to prise off or apart, or indeed damage in any way by strength alone. Angry at being defeated so close to escape, he swiped his claws at the shutters, leaving only a shallow scratch mark. It would take him hours to force his way in from this direction and he had minutes if he was lucky. Worse, he could detect noises and the smell of ozone coming from the room they protected, indicating the presence of a lot of electrical equipment, most likely that which allowed them to use the Ring.

He growled in frustration, and as he looked around the armoured room for another way in, he saw a small device with a lens and a red light pointed at him, following him wherever he moved. Snarling angrily, he lashed out and smashed the device, ripping it into shreds with a single swipe of his claws. The protruding wires sparked, a chunk of the security camera dangling and bouncing off the rocky wall.

He began thinking about other routes to this room, hoping there was another way in that lacked the same protection. The armour's navigation memories flooded his conscious and he took off, bounding back down the metal steps and charging on all fours out of the metal hatch, not stopping for any reason. He couldn't afford stealth anymore, only speed.

The room's other entrance was not armoured, but it was locked. Spying the tiny ape-sized keypad next to the door, he wondered if the armour had stumbled across an access code while it had been exploring the base's computers.

In response, a string of pictographs appeared in his mind's eye. He didn't recognise them, but he could see that they were identical to several of the symbols on the keypad. Carefully, remembering how delicate and fragile ape technology was, he keyed the string of symbols in with the tip of his claw, taking care not to puncture or rip the device.

The doors unlocked with a beep and he pushed them open to reveal a well lit room lined with monitors and computer consoles, the centre occupied by an illuminated table with a chart on it. Stepping into the room, Fido could see that many of the displays weren't working properly, and he grinned. Moving as quickly as his injuries would allow to the terminal on the far side of the room, he extended the thin auxiliary jack from his armour and inserted it into the console, the animated hair-thin tips of the wires probing and infiltrating the device. He had been regrettably forced to abandon the armour's primary interface device when the captor had attacked him in the computer centre, but with no immediate ape presence, the wired link would suffice.

**Local access achieved. Recommencing interrupted download.**

_Activating __the __Ring __and __removing __the __barrier __across __it __is __a __higher __priority_, he thought.

**Urgent: decrypted data indicates local Travelling Ring is the Jailer's Door.**

Fido stopped, absorbing this revelation. If the Travelling Ring in the adjacent chamber was indeed the one that could access the Prison holding his entire race, this was too strategically important to ignore – he needed to know precisely where the Ring was located in space, in the event the apes had moved it to a different world.

**Acquiring diagnostic logs, technical information and ape research. Accessing local astronomical data. Position confirmed.**

The noise of the approaching apes was getting louder, the smell of the nitrocellulose compounds in their weapons growing stronger with every second.

_I need to go now – retract the barrier and activate the Ring!_

**Travelling Ring control systems accessed. Barrier is retracting. Activation sequence entered.**

Through the shutters he could hear the Ring whine and rumble into life. He waited as long as he could bear for the armour to continue sifting through and downloading as much of the apes' data as possible, until the ground began trembling and shaking from the Ring's tremendous power, but the human soldiers were closing – he didn't want them to have the chance to follow him through the Ring, so he needed to leave immediately. Wasting no time, he yanked the cord free and bounded out of the room on all fours, heading back the way he had come from the larger chamber as quickly as he could manage. The hatch was still open the way he'd left it and he'd just heard the whine and roar of the Ring opening, the chamber beyond the hatch flooding with rippling blue-white light and the overpoweringly sharp smell of a newly formed wormhole.

There was a raspy metallic noise, and as Fido ducked and stepped through the hatch he saw the blades of the barrier extended from their hiding place inside the Ring, quickly dousing the light and cutting off access to the wormhole. Roaring in shock and anger, Fido scanned the chamber, quickly noticing an unusually large and powerfully-built ape with flame-coloured hair operating a control inside a metal cabinet to one side of the Ring.

* * *

><p>One by one, in a painfully slow process, they began checking each of the caskets. Halverson had briefed all of them on what to look for based on her observations and knowledge of the old Lhoakan language so they didn't have to actively prise the lids of every single box they found – she was sure that a man of Preedroch's apparent standing and value would be in an immediately noticeable coffin, but they still needed to look at every single coffin.<p>

"Is this the one?" Waldroch called. Halverson walked over in exasperation – every one of them had found at least six coffins each that they considered to be 'the one', and they had all turned out to be anything but the coffin of a great and respected scholar.

Halverson studied the coffin. It was sturdy, well enough built to survive over a thousand years and yet it lacked the embellishment the other caskets had. There were none of the symbols she had quickly come to identify as being linked with the Lhoakan military or politicians, but there was one she hadn't seen before. Trying not to get too excited, she brushed around carefully, trying to find the start of the runic text that was engraved into the lid.

"Guys! Gareth, get over here!" Halverson shouted excitedly.

"This is the one then?" Waldroch asked.

"Unless you know of anybody else with the surname Preedroch who was a scholar, yes, definitely. Gareth, what tools do you have on you?"

The lid proved tricky to remove even with the four of them working on it, which only made Halverson more excited as she pointed out that such a tight seal suggested excellent preservation. Eventually, with considerable exertion from the entire party, the lid jerked upwards a few centimetres, the seal broken. Moving the thick oak panel between them, they set it down and went to investigate.

Preedroch was well-preserved for a millennia-old corpse, his skin still largely intact, though long since turned to fragile parchment and contracted to fit his skeleton. It was also beginning to crumble in certain areas of his body. More importantly, the grave goods he had been interred with were also in excellent condition, and predictably for a scholar, many of them were books or scrolls, among them the most influential and important that he himself had penned.

Gingerly and wearing disposable gloves for the protection of the various artefacts, Halverson began removing the items, carefully placing them on several nearby surfaces.

"You believe you have located the book you were looking for?" Waldroch said uncertainly.

"Yeah, I definitely think it's this one, it has a word on the cover that I think translates as something like 'Chronicle' – and my God, it's in good condition. You Lhoakans really know how to take care of your dead," she said, carefully setting the book down on the flat, well-lit surface she had prepared and even more carefully teasing the book's leather bound cover open. Standing at her shoulder, Maheld watched in breathless anticipation and awe. Halverson's laptop sat to one side, ready to assist with the translation and also to record every single page in excruciating detail through her digital camera.

"Grace of Daphell… I can't believe I'm seeing this!" she breathed. Halverson smiled.

"I know. The preservation is remarkable and the text is far more legible. See this? And this – these match perfectly with the document I studied in the archive. Every word I was able to read on that I can read on this, but in context. This is definitely it. This book is the chronicle of early Lhoaka, as written by Preedroch."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Moffatt held her breath as the hatch opened and the alien set foot inside the Gatehouse, metallic claws clicking on the concrete floor. She steeled herself, knowing she would only have one shot, reminding herself that although the risks were great, the potential reward was much greater still.

The alien stooped, almost hunching to fit through the human-sized hatchway, its brown, furry bulk sliding into the room. It snarled angrily, and it seemed to be completely fixated on Jarvis operating the manual Iris controls, buying her the single moment of distraction she needed but making her timing all the more important. From her hiding place on the unfinished mezzanine level above the door, Moffatt jumped off as soundlessly as she could, praying she didn't miss as she dropped and landed on the angular, unyielding armour on the wolf's hunched back.

As she hit, grunting involuntarily from the pain of the impact and the angular metal plates digging into her, she used her free hand to grab a handful of the thick, wiry brown fur to steady herself, swinging with all her strength and letting the momentum of her drop assist her in burying the large syringe into the Fenrir's exposed neck. To her surprise, it not only punctured the dense, trinium-reinforced hide but the muscle underneath until the entire hypodermic needle had disappeared into the neck, just as the Fenrir began to react, throwing its head back and roaring in anger as it tried to grab her. As it bucked, twisted and writhed, she quickly released her grip on the Fenrir's fur, instead using her footholds on its armour and her tight grip on the buried syringe to anchor herself to the thrashing alien and keep herself out of reach of the razor sharp talons that thrashed around in front of her. She quickly slapped her palm down on the plunger, dumping the contents of the syringe into the Fenrir.

The chemical cocktail surged into the wolf's bloodstream and the creature, now writhing wildly and howling in anguish at its inability to grab or maim its assailant, tried a new approach, hunching down and then explosively standing to its full height. The sudden force had the desired effect, loosening her grip and shrugging the now yelling Moffatt off its shoulders. Before she could hit the ground, it whirled with furious speed and force, swatting her out of the air with an open hand. The force was incredible, immediately winding her even through her tactical vest and hurling her across the room. She slammed awkwardly into the concrete floor and bounced, sliding until she hit the rocky wall with a sickening thud and a dull crack, where she remained completely motionless.

Jarvis stepped away from the manual Iris control panel as the interlocking blades slid together across the shimmering event horizon. Cradling the Minimi and preparing for a fight, he turned just in time to see Moffatt get flung off the enraged Fenrir's back and smacked hard across the room like she was a volleyball being served. The impact and sound of her landing made his gut twist and he had to fight hard against his instinctive reaction to run and check on her, but there was a bigger, more immediate and distinctly hairier problem to deal with first. Its teeth bared, the Fenrir reached back and, with some difficulty, plucked the large syringe from its thick neck, crushing it in one oversized hand and angrily scattering the remains on the ground, all the while staring at him and snarling. It staggered slightly, before vigorously shaking its head a few times. It roared at him, flexing its claws and baring its teeth again.

Instinctively, Jarvis raised and shouldered his Minimi, thumbing the safety on the left side of the weapon and taking aim, before thinking about what Moffatt had said shortly after they left the infirmary. Although it went against his strongest instincts of both duty and self-preservation, he lowered the weapon and re-engaged the safety. He stood his ground in front of the Stargate and watched almost impassively as the wolf roared at him, dropped to all fours and charged across the floor, its claws clicking against the concrete. It wasn't nearly as fast as other Fenrir he'd seen run like that, and its movements were sluggish and clumsy, one of its legs apparently not working properly.

It leapt, and at the last second Jarvis threw himself bodily to one side, hearing the Fenrir crash into the Iris over the still active Stargate. The burbling noise of the open wormhole behind the trinium alloy barrier was drowned out by the pained roar of the Fenrir as it grabbed a tip of one of the Iris blades and pulled itself up, almost immediately collapsing again. As Jarvis jumped to his feet, he saw it try again, this time staggering upright by leaning on the gate.

It ran towards him again, but almost slowly. Praying his timing was good enough, Jarvis waited until the Fenrir was close, its jaws open and running with drool before roaring defiantly back at the alien and smashing the telescopic buttstock of his Minimi Para against its skull with all the strength he could muster.

To his astonishment, the blow connected solidly with its muzzle and the weakened Fenrir immediately went down, sprawling across the concrete. He wasted no time, immediately running up to it and slamming the weapon against the wolf's head again and again. When the extended buttstock buckled and snapped from the repeated blows, he stopped only to cast the weapon aside and look back at Moffatt. She hadn't moved at all, and from here there were no signs of life. Screaming, Jarvis began raining blows onto the Fenrir's skull with his fists. His blows weren't doing much damage to the wolf, only to his knuckles, but they were keeping the severely weakened alien down on the floor and increasingly disoriented.

Panting heavily, his knuckles now purple with livid bruises and a few of them split and bleeding, he stepped back and examined the damaged Minimi Para, knowing the base's armourer would want a word about the wrecked buttstock. Although it continued to take regular but shallow breaths, the Fenrir hadn't moved anything voluntarily for several seconds, remaining sprawled on the floor, its tongue lolling out of its mouth. Jarvis took a few exhausted steps back, and from a distance he watched and waited until the Fenrir's eerily solid gold eyes closed and didn't reopen, indicating that Moffatt's powerful tranquiliser cocktail had finally taken full effect.

* * *

><p>Halverson turned away from the book, carefully removing the gloves she was using to touch it and rubbed her eyes vigorously with the heels of her hands.<p>

"Good God this is tough going," she said to nobody in particular.

"Yeah?" Llewellyn asked casually, still investigating the platform where the Stargate had once stood.

"Oh hell yes. Although it's obviously derived from Proto-Norse and is closely related enough that I can actually read it, there are just enough subtle variances to make you need to stop and think, each word differing ever so slightly from its Earth equivalent, or minor grammatical or syntactic differences, so even after translating it… you know what, this is worse than reading Chaucer," she said, hopelessly massaging a nascent headache.

"Hey, I know some Chaucer. 'Three fellowes wenten into a pubbe…'" Llewellyn began, speaking from the other side of the room. Halverson studiously ignored him.

"That said, I am certainly getting a much better idea of how things unfolded now. There was most definitely a catastrophe, something that made the sky dark for a long time, months even, and rained dust. It almost wiped out all plant and animal life and people were dying of starvation. They were so desperate that at times they were eating anything remotely organic and digestible, including the paper and leather of their books. Preedroch had to keep his chronicle very well hidden to prevent it becoming somebody's lunch," Halverson said.

"Sounds like an impact winter," Llewellyn said.

Halverson looked up at him, squinting as she tried to recall the term.

"I think I know, but remind me what that is," she said, her memory admitting defeat.

"Okay, the planet gets hit by an asteroid or comet or something, and either a massive amount of dust gets kicked up into the stratosphere, or the impact sets fire to forests everywhere, so you get this huge firestorm that dumps massive quantities of soot into the stratosphere, or best of all, you get both. Either way, the dust or the soot blocks out sunlight, making the sky go dark, so the plants starve and die, followed by animals and people. Or it could be a volcanic winter, which does much the same thing but with massive amounts of volcanic ash," Llewellyn said idly.

"Sounds like the culprit alright," Halverson said. "So anyway, it sounds like the survival of the culture, society and civilisation of Lhoaka rested almost exclusively on the use of the Stargate, like being able to trade for food and water, which it seems is why they moved it somewhere more accessible than the bottom of a cave under a hill. Preedroch even described watching the event itself as dozens of people tied ropes to the Stargate and hauled it all the way out of the catacombs to somewhere far more accessible for the entire city, since it was now utterly essential to their survival.

"Lots of people went through the gate and fled to other worlds to escape the famine, death and darkness, while others used it to trade their most valuable items, probably including many of their books and records, for even the most basic foodstuffs just to keep Lhoakan society going in some form. They couldn't know if it was permanent or temporary, but they hung on, and as it turned out they hung on long enough for the sky to become bright and for plants to begin sprouting again, but by that time there were so few people left… there were so few left they had little choice but to either pack up and leave, or else begin enticing people to Lhoaka to repopulate and rebuild their society. Being a proud lot, they opted for the latter, except the Old Lhoakans were grossly outnumbered, and it didn't go so well."

Llewellyn, Maheld and Waldroch listened in enraptured silence.

"In his final entries, Preedroch laments the dilution and outright abandonment of most Lhoakan traditions, beliefs and values over the course of a single decade, and this was nine hundred years ago!" Halverson said.

"So your theory was correct?" Llewellyn asked.

"Seems so, but he keeps using words that I have no idea about, like mentioning the 'Khoree' and how they visited Lhoaka on a regular basis to gather what they called the 'Vhalyr', which I think, from the context, were specific and prominent people, it's not quite clear. The Khoree visited at least once during his lifetime, possibly a few times, but not for some time prior to the catastrophe – Preedroch writes that many believed this to be connected to the catastrophe and took it as a sign to leave. But these words… Khoree, Vhalyr, I don't know. I'm trying to… oh, sometimes I am so stupid."

"No argument there. Found something?" Llewellyn said helpfully.

"Oh hell yes. I think I just got it – I think a few apparently unconnected references scattered through what I've read actually fit very neatly together. If that's the case, then the Vhalyr were highly regarded Lhoakan warriors, and the Khoree arrived to take them through the Stargate, even if they were recently killed," she said excitedly.

"Doctor, I… do not recognise these words, I'm afraid," Maheld said. Waldroch's face was completely blank.

"Sorry, I think I'm still missing something," Llewellyn said, smiling apologetically.

"Vhalyr were warriors, Khoree the ones who gathered them? Vhalyr, Khoree? Get it? Valkyrie, Gareth! Valkyries were the 'choosers of the slain' who took the best warriors to Valhalla in Norse mythology, and Preedroch just mentioned them essentially by both name and duty. Except he doesn't mention Valhalla… but I think he mentioned observing them taking the Vhalyr once."

Putting the gloves back on, Halverson carefully turned through pages before finding the relevant passage. She continued to read for a while, but silently this time, concentrating on the task of translating the old Lhoakan language.

"Wait," she said a while later. "Hang on a minute, this is… oh my God. Gareth! You need to hear this!"

* * *

><p>"You know, just once, just damn well once I'd like for one of my team <em>not<em> to end up in the bloody infirmary after we run a significant operation."

Taylor's distinctive bass voice was very welcome. The intense headache, wave of nausea, and parched mouth however, were not, and the moment she tried to move she realised she had almost no strength but a not-inconsiderable degree of discomfort in her torso and a dull ache in her neck.

"Welcome back, Corporal. You had us worried," he said.

"Ugh. How… long?" Even speaking was uncomfortable and took effort, her body responding sluggishly and weakly. She could feel the dull pinch of the intravenous cannula in her arm, hear the rhythmic beep of the monitors and though her vision was a little blurred and her eyelids still heavy, she could clearly make out the unmistakeable dark haired form of her commanding officer. From the foot of her bed, Taylor crossed his arms and stared at her as she laid her head back down, too weak and nauseous to hold it up off the pillow for long.

"Quite a while. You were in a coma," he said, moving to sit in the chair next to her bed.

"I…"

"Yes, but luckily it was shallow and only lasted about six hours. Not surprising, since you have a linear skull fracture, though thankfully small and nothing much to worry about according to Doctor Nelson, and probably a mild concussion. Since your head took a pretty bad knock, you'll be in here for a while, as much for observation as recuperation. Oh, and you have cracked ribs and bruises. _Lots_ of bruises."

"Has…?"

"You will of course be crushed to hear that you missed the handover ceremony. It was fun – most of the VIPs bickered, backpedalled, assigned blame, all while shaking hands and smiling falsely for photos… basically doing what they do best. Even nearly being eaten by a werewolf didn't shut them up for long, though Melford was mercifully quiet through most of it. That Moore bloke asked after you though, but other than that they're all gone now, thank God."

"What… about…?"

"Sergeant Jarvis? He's fine. Absolutely chuffed to bits that he was able to take on a Fenrir in close combat and not only survive, but win – even if you did even the odds with that pharmaceutical cocktail of yours. He always glosses over that part when he tells the story, and _boy_ is he telling the story. 'I'm the guy who took on a Fenrir hand-to-hand and knocked it out', over and over – you know how hard it is to shut him up. He's very impressed with you, by the way. I'm a bit annoyed I missed it if I'm honest – we only had one camera remaining in the gatehouse, and grainy, silent black and white footage from a weird angle just isn't the same. Doctor Nelson wants to know where the hell you found out that rhino-strength ketamine-xylazine works on our furry foes. I'm only guessing here, but I said you extrapolated it from the Porton Down report on Fenrir biochemistry."

"And…"

"Fido himself? Still alive thanks to you, so we got something useful out of this whole fiasco. He's now guarded round the clock by a dozen extra-burly Marines and kept comatose by a heavy sedative drip, which we decided to get in before the tranquilisers you injected him with wore off. Now we have the equipment, we did an ultrasound this time, found three more devices under his skin. Doctor Nelson removed them this morning and Nesbitt's like a damn kid in a toy shop going over them. Unfortunately, since Fido wrecked Section J when he broke out, we don't have any useable containment facilities, so he's being shipped to the SGC this afternoon and then flown to a secure unit at Porton Down for full testing and interrogation. He'll be kept sedated and at gunpoint times ten the whole way."

"But…"

"Oh yes, we get to keep the base and keep fighting the Fenrir. Seems Sir Melford had a bit of a change of heart upon seeing how much damage a lone, wounded, alien werewolf without weapons was able to wreak, and how close he came to becoming a civil servant entrée, though I don't think for a second it'll be a permanent condition. Our funding's being cleared as we speak though. Things should get a little easier around here from now on, though there is a pretty grave price to be paid."

"What…?"

"We're shortly going to be getting an IOA representative who'll be on base at all times to monitor us, evaluate our command decisions and provide or seek IOA guidance as and when necessary. Can't let us have too much fun or break too many health and safety laws."

Moffatt smiled weakly.

"Nice work, Corporal. Get some rest, because you've earned it and apparently Halverson has some surprising news. If you're not up and about by then, I'll get her to tell you when you wake up."

Smiling as Taylor walked away, Moffatt sank back into deep sleep.

* * *

><p>The briefing room was mercifully empty of the VIPs and dignitaries of the past few days, and with the door closed and lights on, it was easy to believe the base was back to normal. On the strength of their discovery and its implications, Llewellyn and Halverson had left Lhoaka a short while after their discovery in Preedroch's tomb, but not before they took with them dozens of high resolution digital photographs.<p>

They returned only to find the Garrison in disarray. Clutching a mass of papers and a clipboard, Webber stormed into the briefing room like a man with too little time and too many things to deal with, making it abundantly clear that he felt his attention was better directed elsewhere.

"Major Taylor informs me you found something on Lhoaka that you feel is of great importance. You do understand we are dealing with the aftermath of a minor crisis?" he said irritably, paying only minimal attention to Halverson as she stood next to the briefing room's table.

"I do, but this is a major discovery, perhaps enough of one to change what we're doing here. I thought you should know sooner rather than later, Brigadier," Halverson said apologetically.

"Fine. Out with it then," Webber barked as he took his habitual seat at the head of the table, reading several of the papers and scribbling his signature on several of them.

"We found an artefact, a book called the Chronicle of Lhoaka, and it makes for interesting reading," Halverson began, sitting down and opening her laptop.

"So take it to the research department or hand it over to the SGC if we're not equipped to study it at the moment. If indeed we're equipped for _anything_ at the moment," Webber said absently, continuing with his paperwork.

"Actually, I couldn't bring it back with me for study because the Lord Governor stipulated in the warrant he wrote that the Chronicle couldn't leave the catacombs," Halverson said. "However, he neglected to say anything about removing a high-res digital copy we made and stored on my laptop," she added, smiling. Webber simply grunted in response.

"The point is, Old Lhoaka had a scholar, a man named Preedroch, and approximately a thousand years ago he witnessed visitors coming to his world on several occasions with great regularity. It took me a while to find, but he described one such visitation in tremendous detail. He called the visitors," she said, consulting her laptop, "the 'Khoree, Gatherers of Our Slaine and Bless'd Maidens of Those Who Dwelt upon Vhenahym', and he describes watching them leave through the Stargate," she said triumphantly.

Webber didn't even look up, furiously writing notes.

"I'm not following you, Doctor, and I have little desire to at the moment. I have far more pressing matters to attend to."

"It took me a while to understand the relevance, but I found a tonne of evidence to back up my theory even before I read Preedroch's chronicle – the prevalence of boars in every aspect of Lhoakan society – food, leather, heraldry and myths. The very high values they placed on nature, wealth, wisdom, and vitality, positive attitudes towards luck and determining the future… the pattern is so damn obvious I can't believe I didn't get it sooner," Halverson said.

"Doctor, you are testing my patience. The only thing you need to get sooner is to the bloody point!" Webber said irritably.

Halverson sighed. "Brigadier, he's describing the Valkyries taking Lhoakan warriors, dead or alive, to a planet called Vanaheim. In Norse mythology, Vanaheim is the home of the Vanir. The Lhoakan gods, their 'Guardians', and very likely those who transplanted the Lhoakans from Earth in the first place, were the Vanir."

That got Webber's attention. He paused, thinking for a second before putting the pen down and looking at Halverson for the first time since the meeting had begun.

"It gets better," she said, smiling. "Though his account says he's too far away to see which ones, he describes the Khoree, golden haired women who shone with warm light, escorting the Vhalyr, the Lhoakan warriors, to the Way-circle, the Stargate. At which point, he specifically mentions seeing the Stargate activate and the whole party disappear through to Vanaheim."

"I don't follow Doctor," Webber said tersely.

"The DHD only had six symbols glowing on it. That means that when the Stargate was dialled, only seven chevrons were lit."

Caught slightly off-guard, it took Webber a moment to realise the stunning implications of this development. "You mean…?"

"I mean that not only is the home of the Vanir a real planet, accessible by Stargate, it's not in Ida like we assumed, but in the Milky Way. Brigadier – Vanaheim exists and it is in _this__ galaxy_."

* * *

><p><em>AN: That's finally (mercifully) the final chapter in the entire, overblown "Baptism of Fire" story. Stargate: Ragnarok will return, probably early next year, so if you want to be apprised of the next episode, please add me on Author Alert, and thanks for taking the time to read (and maybe review?) this story of mine._


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